


The Chessmaster: Black Bishop

by Flye_Autumne



Series: The Chessmaster [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, POV Multiple, Political AU, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Sane Voldemort, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 60,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flye_Autumne/pseuds/Flye_Autumne
Summary: Chessmaster Volume III. AU. All is not what it seems to be. As information and disinformation spreads, Death Eaters are released from Azkaban and several long-buried secrets surface, exposing hidden truths. With reputations, plots, and lives on the line, schemes come into fruition as the Chessmaster makes his next move...





	1. Guilty Until Proven Innocent

_High Security Cell Block_

_Azkaban Prison, Undisclosed Location, United Kingdom_

_1 July 1993_

 

It was dark in the cell, and the air was filled with the acrid scent of urine and a faint hint of blood. The man inside gave no notice to the foul odor, absorbed as he was in painstakingly carving yet another tally mark into the wall. There were 4260 of the small notches -- not that anyone besides the prisoner was counting.

Sirius Black finished etching the 4261st tally mark into the wall before running his finger over it. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he murmured. “So very sorry.”

Sirius rocked back on his heels, shivering as the chill of the Dementors coupled with the coolness of the North Sea washed over him. For a moment, it was hard to breathe as the iciness of death incarnate overwhelmed his senses. Shuddering, Sirius drew one breath, then another, firmly stifling the rising feeling of panic. He couldn’t afford to lose it. To fall apart. To tumble into yawning abyss…

A key rattled in the lock, and Sirius scrambled backwards on all fours, panic rising in an uncontrollable surge. This was it. This was the end.

Sirius braced himself, trying to think of a happy memory, something, anything before the deathly rattle…

“Mr. Black,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Please follow me.”

Sirius stood on shaking legs and limped forward.

 _The end. This is the end, the end._ Sirius clamped down on his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose it. Not here, not now.

Much to his surprise, the guard didn’t put him in cuffs, but merely allowed him to walk in the dim light of the man’s canine Patronus. They wound their way slowly through the high security cell block, Bellatrix’s eerie singing following them as they descended down towards the yard.

“Sing a Song of Sixpence

A bag full of rye

Four and twenty naughty boys

All baked in a pie

When the pie was opened

The boys did not sing

For they had been dead

And set before a king!”

 

Bellatrix’s laughter chased them through the yard, and Sirius swallowed. So it was to be a public execution, then. Perhaps Bellatrix’s words were prophetic.   _It would soon be over. He would see Lily and James again, and tell them how sorry he was, so very sorry._ Sirius’ mind froze. _Will they be forgiving? I’ve disappointed them, failed to kill Peter, failed to take care of Harry..._

They trod across the dead grass of the yard, and into the guard house. Sirius stared, stopping dead in his tracks. What in the name of Merlin was going on? Was he getting a last meal? Sirius scoffed. _Of course not._

“If you would hurry along, Mr. Black.”

Sirius trudged onward, mind reeling. He barely registered their entrance into the guard house or their turn into the visitor section. It wasn’t until they exited the prison proper that Sirius froze.

“What’s,” he croaked, voice hoarse from disuse, “going on?”

The guard opened his mouth to reply, but another man answered.

“You have been released from Azkaban, Mr. Black,” said a smooth voice. Lucius Malfoy strode towards him, black and silver robes immaculate, “did no one tell you?”

Sirius’ mind spun. What other universe had he landed in that Lucius _bloody_ Malfoy was announcing his freedom? Was he hallucinating?

“No,” Sirius managed. “Why are you here?” he asked eloquently.

Lucius examined his fingernails. “Narcissa is...indisposed, making me the closest thing you have to family.”

Well, Bellatrix was in prison, Sirius rationalized. “What about Andromeda?”

“Family with enough political clout to get you out of Azkaban,” Lucius amended as he rummaged around in his robes pocket, eventually withdrawing several pages of the _Daily Prophet_. “Take a moment to catch up, would you? And after that --” Lucius wrinkled his nose. “You could really use a shower.”

Sirius took the proffered pages, jaw dropping as he read.

 

_SIRIUS BLACK: FRAMED FOR MURDER_

 

 _Sirius Black, once one of Britain’s most notorious criminals, is innocent after all,_ writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. _The betrayal of James and Lily Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and the gruesome murder of Peter Pettigrew and thirteen muggles took place nearly twelve years ago, yet it still casts a shadow on our collective conscience, reminding us of the terror of the Dark Uprising. We were happy to let memories of such horrific events slide to the back of our recollections until one man pointed out a simple fact: Sirius Black, along with several other convicted ‘Death Eaters’, never received a trial._

_Lord Thomas Gaunt’s revelation was announced to the House of Lords during early June amid great skepticism. Lord Gaunt urged the Wizengamot to vote to reopen the cases of Sirius Black, Edwin Travers, Augustus Rookwood, Hector Mulciber, and Antonin Dolohov due to a lack of a trial on the part of Black and Travers, and a failure to comply with proper proceedings on the behalf of Rookwood, Mulciber, and Dolohov. Lord Gaunt’s proposition, while initially  presumed preposterous, was quickly backed by Lords Avery, Carrow, Malfoy, Nott, and Yaxley. Several others followed suit, and the resulting investigation was shocking: Sirius Black was, indeed, innocent, and the true culprit was none other than Peter Pettigrew._

_Pettigrew has since been stripped of his Order of Merlin and is on the run. Information and sightings of Pettigrew should be reported immediately to the Auror Department._

_FRAMED continues on page 14._

 

_RATTED OUT: PETTIGREW AT FAULT FOR THE 1981 MURDER OF JAMES AND LILY POTTER_

 

 _No holds were barred at the reexamination of the Black trial -- or lack thereof -- on Tuesday,_ writes Mina Rae Vance, Legal Correspondent _. After the Wizengamot decision to re-open the cases of several convicted Death Eaters, Wizarding Britain could not have been more shocked at the truths they uncovered. Lawyers discovered gross breaches of legal conduct in the cases of Augustus Rookwood, Hector Mulciber, and Antonin Dolohov, and a complete lack of trial on the behalf of Sirius Black and Edwin Travers. As pages of legalese were deciphered, experts began to put together a disturbing story: not only had Black not received a trial, he was innocent. The true culprit was none other than Peter Pettigrew._

_In the original 1981 Auror report, Pettigrew was declared dead when Black allegedly blew up a street with a single blasting curse. The only surviving piece of Pettigrew was thought to be his finger, and the wizard was posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class. While a comprehensive review of events is still be compiled, one fact is know for certain: the finger phenomena is impossible. Furthermore, archived Pensieve memories from Black confirm that Pettigrew, not him, was the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter._

_The legal negligence in the Black affair had never been as apparent as when the Pensieve memories were discovered. Not only does this speak of a suppression of evidence, but also of clear malicious intent. Thus far, leads are not forthcoming; however, two individuals were heavily involved in the trials following the Dark Uprising: Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, and the then head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Lord Bartemius Crouch._

_Neither Dumbledore nor Crouch were available for comment._

 

Sirius snapped his jaw shut, mind still spinning. Dumbledore. Dumbledore had _betrayed_ him. Dumbledore had gamed the system to let Sirius rot in Azkaban? Sirius shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Dumbledore was on his side -- he was a _good man_ \-- or was he?

“How?”  he managed.

Lucius smiled tightly. “Lord Gaunt has many connections.”

Sirius thought hard for a moment, trying to dredge up any recollection of Lord Gaunt. He drew a blank.

“Why?” Sirius asked, still scrambling to piece his thoughts together.

“Lord Gaunt has many reasons.”

Sirius stared, agape. Something was obviously afoot -- even he could determine that with his prison-addled senses. There had to be some reason for Lucius Malfoy, of all people, to arrive at Azkaban and announce that he, Sirius Black, was free. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the smell of it, not one bit.

“...Sirius.”

Sirius shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing he’d been lost in thought. “What?”

“I asked if you were ready to go, Sirius, or if you would prefer to continue peppering me with queries.”

Sirius swallowed. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it were. He’d be free from the literal soul-sucking demons, but among those who metaphorically twisted and took away what they pleased.

“Get me out of this fucking hellhole.”

* * *

 

_Offices of the Daily Prophet_

_Diagon Alley, London, England_

_2 July 1993_

 

Rita scribbled away feverishly, rapidly cross-referencing sources. Her initial article on the Pettigrew-Black situation had made her the de facto expert, which was excellent apart from the lengthy exposé she was now tasked with writing.  

A knock sounded on her office door, and Rita quickly pasted a smile onto her face. “Come in!”

The door opened to reveal a thin man in shabby robes and graying hair.

Rita grinned, cat-like. “Remus Lupin,” she purred. “So nice of you to stop by.”

Lupin smiled tightly. “A pleasure as always, to see you, Rita.” The words didn’t reach his eyes, and he looked around the room cagily, almost as if he was expecting an ambush.

“Sit,” Rita said, gesturing to the chair in front of her. “Do you mind if I use a QuickQuotes Quill?”

Lupin gave her another one of his tight smiles. “I would prefer if you didn’t, actually, although a DictaQuill is fine.”

Rita raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at the man’s awareness, then selected a black DictaQuill and set it on her parchment.

“Interviewer, Rita Skeeter,” she said as the DictaQuill danced across the paper. “Interviewee, Remus Lupin. Interview location, London. Date, 2 July 1993. Time, approximately 11:30. Mr. Lupin, if you could give a bit of background on yourself?”

“My name is Remus Lupin, and I graduated Hogwarts back in 1978, where I was a member of Gryffindor House.”

“And who were your friends at Hogwarts?”

“James Potter,” Lupin began, sadness flashing briefly in his eyes, “Sirius Black...and Peter Pettigrew.”

“Tell me more about them.”

Lupin sighed, nostalgia filling his features. “James was always the leader. He was the one who brought us together in the first place -- we were from such different backgrounds -- yet James was able to see past that and after our first night at Hogwarts, we became the best of friends.

“Sirius was the joker of the group. He had to be, given the dynamics in his family, and the political situation at the time.

“Peter was quiet, and a bit of a tag-along.” Lupin looked down. “I never expected…”

“Never expected what?”

“That he would betray Lily and James.”

Rita made a go-on gesture, and slowly, but surely, Lupin began to recount the story of Lily and James Potter, the Fidelius Charm, and the switch of the Secret Keepers. Rita could hardly keep from smiling as Lupin told the entire sordid tale. It was both heart-wrenching and riveting, and would surely grant her another front page article. No sooner had she ushered Lupin out of her office then the head editor invited himself in.

Rita looked up from her article draft. “What the hell do you want, Gresco?”

The wizard scratched his head, tousling slightly greasy gray hair. “How do you feel about taking another piece on this week, in addition to the Black-Pettigrew deal?”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

Gresco shrugged. “The usual joy of bringing news to our adoring public -- and the

opportunity to personally interview Lord Gaunt.”

Now this was a different kettle of grindylow. “Is this about the wizarding education classes?”

Gresco nodded. “They’re starting this year.”

“I’ll do it,” Rita said. “But I’d better be getting overtime.”

“Consider it done.”

Gresco left, leaving Rita alone in her office. A quick flick of her wand shut and locked her door, then she cracked her knuckles. It was time, at long last, to make ground on the issue of Thomas Gaunt.

* * *

 

_Personal Office Space of Cornelius Fudge_

_Ministry of Magic, London, England_

_2 July 1993_

 

Cornelius read over the press briefing again, then aggressively rubbed his temples. It’d been a long day -- no, a long _week_ . Five formerly accused Death Eaters were now declared innocent, and not due to the rise of new evidence -- no, that would have been _too simple_.

Cornelius threw a baleful glare in the direction of the briefing. All of the accused had had gross neglect of proper legal procedure in their trials, and both Sirius Black and Edwin Travers hadn’t had trials at all. It was preposterous! A complete travesty! It was a story that reeked of corruption, bribes, and lies -- something Cornelius certainly wouldn’t have any experience with -- and it could all be dropped at the feet of Barty Crouch and Albus Dumbledore.

Scowling, Cornelius leaned back in his chair. He’d thought he could trust Barty Crouch, but no, that seemed to hardly be the case. Not only had the former head of International Magical Corporation directly enabled the circumvention of the law, but he’d also collaborated extensively with Dumbledore to cart Black and Travers off to Azkaban without a trial.

Dumbledore. Cornelius couldn’t feel more betrayed. Despite the man’s statements otherwise, Cornelius was thoroughly convinced the man was after his job. Dumbledore could demure all he wanted, but Cornelius knew the truth -- the man thirsted for power, and sought it out. Why else would he be the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Chief Warlock of the House of Commons, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts? It made no sense.

Cornelius sighed. At least he had Lord Gaunt and Lord Malfoy to fall back on. He’d been owling extensively with the pair, and had finally conspired to invite them to meet with him in his office without the presence of his undersecretary.  Dolores was excellent, of course, and on top of her job, but Cornelius didn’t need a sitter. Besides, the entirety of the meeting would go over poor Dolores’ head and be a waste of her time.

A knock sounded on the door, and Cornelius jumped. He took a brief second to compose himself.

“Come in!” Cornelius called cheerily.

Lord Gaunt and Lord Malfoy entered, both wearing impeccably tailored robes.

“Please, take a seat,” Cornelius said, gesturing to the armchairs in front of his desk. “Would you care for tea?”

“Certainly, just with lemon.”

“And I’ll take mine with two sugar cubes and a small dollop of milk.”

Cornelius bustled with the tea things for a moment, then settled back in his chair. “I’ll cut to the chase, gentlemen,” he said, taking a sip of his tea which had a not inconsiderable amount of firewhisky in it. “I am in quite a bind here, with the whole Black and Travers situation. I had no  idea -- none -- that Crouch had endorsed such activities. It’s disturbing -- very disturbing -- to say the least, and now even I am under scrutiny!” Cornelius chuckled nervously. “I was hoping you two gentlemen can give me a spot of advice…”

Lord Gaunt and Lord Malfoy exchanged a glance, and Cornelius prided himself in noticing the subtle gesture.

“If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion,” Lord Gaunt began.

Cornelius waved him on.   

“You must closely analyze the actors in this situation. Here, we have Lord Crouch, Albus Dumbledore, and those wrongfully convicted as our key figures. While you weren’t Minister during the convictions, you came into office shortly after, which casts a shadow of doubt upon you.”

Cornelius frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this.

“My recommendation is to publically distance yourself from Dumbledore and Lord Crouch. Issue a statement acknowledging your innocence in the matter and express your regrets that such a travesty has come to pass. Officially pardon those wrongfully accused, and suggest that reparations are made unto them. Naturally, these are only some of the avenues open to you, but these are what first come to mind.”

Cornelius found himself nodding along. “Excellent points, Lord Gaunt. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Thomas.”

Internally, Cornelius did a jig. “Only if you will call me Cornelius.”

“Of course.”

“And you must call me Lucius,” Lord Malfoy said gallantly. “After all, if we are to be working closely together, there will no longer be a need for such formalities.”

Cornelius could hardly keep himself from grinning. Clearly, it was the beginning of a beautiful new collaboration.

 


	2. The Working Wizard

_Gringotts Bank_

_London, England_

_20 July 1993_

 

The Gringotts Junior Cursebreaker Program was extremely selective, albeit not in the ways most wizards expected. Each year, the summer program accepted ten young wizards and witches to partake in an experiential learning experience. With so few slots available, the program was competitive, and the selection process was lengthy -- depending, of course, on the individual’s potential use to the Bank. The more assets the individual possessed, the shorter their application process would be. Naturally, it was difficult to gauge the potential use of wizards still in school, but the Bank had their ways.

The goblin leaned closer to the observation window, scanning the area for where a gangly red-haired wizard worked. The wizard’s name was Ronald Weasley, and at thirteen years of age, he was the youngest individual accepted to the Junior Cursebreaker Program, and already he was a person of note to Gringotts Bank. As the youngest brother of William Weasley, an expert cursebreaker and the current holder of two Wizengamot seats, Ronald was on the shortlist to become the next Lord Gryffindor, and by wizard law, the ‘rightful’ owner of several goblin-made artifacts. While the wizarding government technically didn’t have the legislative overreach to demand Gringotts give back repossessed artifacts, the goblin nation would rather not find out how far the wizard’s reach was. As such, it was imperative to stay on good terms with both the current and prospective Lord Gryffindor since there was no better way to keep wizards from asking questions than allowing  them to think they had all the answers.

Tapping his chin thoughtfully, the goblin leaned back. It’d been an interesting, if unilluminating observation session, and one that could be of some value if the boy stayed late to play Knuckleback again.

* * *

 

_Later that day…_

* * *

 

Ron leaned over his parchment, scratching away furiously as the Arithmancy matrix began to condense. Some quick subtraction made it collapse more, and Ron plugged in his final simplified variables; the matrix stabilized. Running a hand through his hair, Ron breathed a sigh of relief. Arithmancy was challenging -- more challenging than Ron had initially anticipated. It involved not only higher level mathematics, but also seeing how pieces fit together and could be reduced into one simple equation or probability matrix. While some of the upper level maths still confused Ron, seeing how the pieces fit together was easy, and he could often solve the matrices quicker than some of the older students in the program who had actually taken Arithmancy. Speaking of classes…

Ron made a mental note to owl Professor Snape. Curse breaking was proving to be surprisingly interesting, and it required an O.W.L in Ancient Runes, and an N.E.W.T. in Runic Applications. Ron had initially planned on taking Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures, but now he wanted to add Ancient Runes to his schedule. With any luck, it’d all work out.

Ron stood up, and handed in his work. They’d been learning how to predict the likely results of curses if they were triggered, and in the upcoming weeks they’d be learning to backtrace a curse based on its effects. To say Ron was excited would be an understatement -- Fred and George would never be able to keep anything safe from him again once he mastered that particular skill.

“Weasley, are you staying for a game of Knuckleback?”

Ron looked up. Nimrod, one of the younger goblins, was looking at him expectantly.

“Sure. I’ve got a spare hour before I’ve got to pick my sister up from work.”

Nimrod smiled, revealing pointed teeth. “Excellent.Tesz, Baax -- Weasley will play a game.”

They settled around a table where Tesz and Baax had already set up a Knuckleback board. Ron grinned. Knuckleback was a goblin strategy game that was similar to chess, but more complex, and in three dimensions. There were also four players involved, which led to more potential chaos as alliances were formed and shattered as the game advanced. Ron’s army had been mercilessly slaughtered the first time he’d played, and while he was nowhere near as good as any of the goblins, he was, in their words ‘not longer completely infantile’ and ‘not a complete embarrassment’ when he played. Hopefully, by the end of the summer, he would progress to ‘possibly not an idiot’.

Ron studied the board. It was a typical Knuckleback set up -- each player had an army consisting of a combination of wizards, giants, dragons, manticores, hippogriffs, and trolls. The goal of each player was to conquer the entire board while operating under the constraints of each piece. While simple in concept, the game was very difficult to master, given that it was played in three different dimensions with four different players, presenting far more permutations at each juncture of play. Furthermore, there were seven different types of pieces in Knuckleback, whereas chess only had six. The fact that Knuckleback pieces could be combined together certainly didn’t make anything easier -- wizards could mount hippogriffs and become more versatile, airborne units, but at the cost of potentially losing the wizard piece should the hippogriff not acquiesce.

The game moved forward at a rapid pace. Ron started in a tentative alliance with Nimrod, but that quickly fell apart when Ron lost several of his giants and trolls in a trap set up by Tesz and Baax. The calculus of the game shifted, and Ron regrouped his wizards and hippogriffs behind a solid defense of his remaining giants, trolls, as well as his manticores, knowing the fire breathing hybrids would keep Tesz’s burgeoning army off his back for the time being. Ron was successfully able to mount several of his wizards on hippogriffs while Tesz and Baax focused on decimating Nimrod’s army. Unfortunately for Tesz, Baax sabotaged his offensive maneuvers, collaborating with Nimrod to crush the majority of Tesz’s forces in a pincer movement.

By now, Ron had assembled an aerial army, with his dragons moving forward first as a tank unit, and his wizard mounted hippogriffs following behind to snipe off any offending units.  Most of the giant, troll, and manticore defense were left at Ron’s base to defend any oncoming attacks while his new aerial army set off to destroy the few forces Tesz had left near Ron’s territory. Much to his delight, Ron was able to destroy the few hippogriffs and trolls left at Tesz’s outpost. Grinning, he scanned to board...but the results didn’t look good. The rest of Tesz’s army had been obliterated by Nimrod and Baax’s combined forces, and now their enormous host was heading towards Ron’s tiny army.

Sighing, Ron marshalled his dragons, hippogriffs, and wizards. He was definitely improving at the game, and he was determined to not go down without a fight. Several moves later, Ron’s army was completely destroyed, but the sting of defeat was mellowed by the mildly approving look Nimrod gave him. Ron watched for a few moments as Baax and Nimrod’s forces turned on each other, then stood.

“I’ve got to go now -- I need to pick my sister up from work,” Ron said. “Thanks for inviting me to play with you.”

The goblins grunted in acknowledgement, and Ron left the bank, navigating his way through Diagon Alley to Sydewaize Alley where the Muddy Hippogriff was located. Ron had managed to connect Ginny up with his former dish washing job, both to give her an income of sorts and also to keep her out of the house during the summer, since Mum could be difficult to be around.

Ron opened the pub door, and was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of bubble and squeak cakes mixed with the sharper odor of firewhiskey. The unwashed, unhewn floors were the same as they’d ever been, and the usual crowd was well into their cups despite the relatively early hour.

Anna, one of his previous coworkers, waved at him from the behind the bar. “Oi, Ron!”

Ron nodded a greeting. “How’ve you been?”

Anna shrugged. “You know, the usual. You’ve gotten tall, eh?”

“A bit, yeah,” Ron said. It was getting to be a bit of a problem, and he was worried about purchasing new robes in the fall. Luckily, his stipend from the Junior Cursebreaker Program was quite hefty, so he would be able to afford new robes, but his siblings would almost definitely be jealous -- no, just Fred and George would be jealous, and it really wasn’t Ron’s fault that they couldn’t be bothered to find summer employment. It wasn’t that Fred and George were stupid, per say, because they were brilliant in their own way. Ron just didn’t see how making weird explosions was going to help the family out, or make Mum feel any better.

“Your sister’s in the kitchen,” Anna said, interrupting Ron’s train of thought.

“Thanks.”

Ron headed back to the kitchen, noticing in amusement that Ginny preferred to sit in the same chair as he did to eat dinner.

“Whatcha got there?”

Ginny swallowed. “Fish and chips and mushy peas. You want some of the peas? I don’t really like them.”

“Sure.”

Ron grabbed a fork and made short work of the mushy peas. They were quite good. Ginny really was missing out.

“So, Gin, how’s work been?”

“It’s not bad. Even better is getting out of the house though.”

“Mum’s been that bad?”

Ginny nodded. “You don’t see it as much, since you’re at Gringotts all day during the week and out playing Quidditch with Fred and George on the weekend, but Mum’s been really down lately. She’s been moping, and it’s just...a lot, you know?”

“I know. You can play Quidditch with us, if you want,” Ron offered. “It’d make it easier to do two-a-side.”

“Mum won’t like it.”

“Bugger what Mum likes. She won’t be happy regardless!”

Ginny smirked, then sighed. “It’s true, you know.”

“Yeah. Do you...remember?”

“I remember enough to know it hasn’t always been like this, but not enough to make the memories feel real. Y’know?”

“I do.” Ron shook his head to clear it. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

Ginny picked up the remains of her dinner and they headed towards the door just as a group of off-duty Aurors walked in.

“Ronald Weasley.”

Ron inclined his head in greeting. “Lord Shacklebolt.”

They walked onwards, Ginny looking at him quizzically.  

“Is that all the Wizengamot rot Bill keeps going on about?” Ginny asked as they headed into Diagon Alley towards the Leaky Cauldron.

“In a way.”

Ginny scuffled her shoes on the cobblestones. “Why do you care about it? You aren’t even close to inheriting, are you?”

“Gin...do you really think Charlie’s going to come back to England to play politics or that Fred and George will take part in the posturing and maneuvering that the Wizengamot requires?”

“Oh.”

“Someone has to step up to the plate, and since I’m the next oldest, it has to be me.”

Ginny stared at him. “Sometimes I think you grew up too quickly.”

“We all did.”

* * *

 

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Ministry of Magic, London, England_

_21 July 1993_

 

Percy straightened his robes before nodding confidently at his reflection. He was as pristine as it was possible to be while wearing secondhand robes, and his hair was perfectly coiffed. His internship at the Department of International Magical Cooperation had started off normally enough. He’d interned at the department the previous summer as well, and given the excellent caliber of his work, he had been promoted within the internship program, this time working directly for Bartemius Crouch. The position had been prime, and the pay even more so, until the nasty business with the Black trial had resurfaced.

Percy quite honestly wasn’t sure what to think about that. When he’d initially learned he would be taking over the Prewett seat on the Wizengamot, he’d been ecstatic. He’d dreamed of stimulating intellectual debates and scintillating conversation.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. The Wizengamot was as corrupt as Mordred, and for the first time, Percy could understand why his father had thrown his lot in with the Modernists in an attempt to orchestrate true change. Arthur Weasley ended up playing the ultimate price for his actions -- or at least that’s what the conspiracy theorists believed. Percy had thought he understood how and why his father died, but nowadays he wasn’t so certain. He wasn’t certain of anything, really, and the thought terrified him. Not for the first time, Percy regretted turning down the Hat’s offer of Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Either of those would have been more useful to his current efforts than Gryffindor.

Sighing and once again questioning his life choices, Percy exited the washroom and headed back towards the Ministry library stacks. After Crouch was dismissed in disgrace, Percy had been shuffled around the Department of International Cooperation before being shunted over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’d been initially disappointed in the move, but he now worked directly for Amelia Bones, which was a big plus.

“Percival, how’s that literature review coming along?”

Percy pushed his glasses further up his nose. Byron Rivers, Bones’ full-time research lackey, was looking at him expectantly.

“It’s coming along well enough. I have two more parchment rolls to read and summarize on the Cauldwalder case, and once I’ve written my analysis I’ll be done.”

“Excellent. As long as you finish that by the end of the day we’ll be in good shape. We’ve a shite load of work coming up though -- the House of Lords just passed a motion to re-examine all the trials from during the Dark Uprising.”

“I know. I was there.”

“Right. Anyhow, we’ve been selected to help the Legal Committee’s team draft write-ups of all the trials.”

Percy did some quick mental gymnastics. “That’s...that’s got to be at least three hundred parchment rolls.”

Byron raised an eyebrow. “Try closer to four hundred. The Lestrange-Crouch trial has about fifty rolls on its own, and we’ve got to review it despite the Lestranges admitting to their guilt, and Crouch being dead.”

“Wait, Crouch, like the former department head Crouch?”

“You never heard?”

“No.”

“Prepare yourself to be surprised, then. Old Crouch’s son -- and only child -- decided it’d be real bright idea to join up with the Death Eaters. Not only was Crouch the younger caught, but he also contributed to the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom. He was sentenced to life in Azkaban, and died shortly after his initial incarceration. Old Crouch’s wife died shortly after, too. Very tragic for him.”

“I see,” Percy said carefully. “You’re sure we have to do a review of the Lestrange-Crouch trial?”

“I can double check with Legal, but I’m fairly certain.”

“Alright, then. Well, I’d best get back to my report.”

Byron walked away, leaving Percy alone with his thoughts. Writing a comprehensive report on the Lestrange-Crouch trial seemed so unnecessary -- after all, how could self-confessed maniacs and a dead man profit from having their legal proceedings examined?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed chapter two! I have a contest of sorts to announce: I’m not that great at writing summaries, and Black Pawn needs an updated summary. If anyone would like to try their hand at writing one and submit it via a comment that’d be great!


	3. Queues, Queries, and Quidditch

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, Surrey, England_

_31 July, 1993_

 

Harry Potter, newly minted thirteen year old and so-called Saviour of Wizarding Britain, had just received a very strange letter. He frowned at the parchment as he thoughtfully chewed on one of the chocolate biscuits Hermione had sent. The letter was certainly odd, which was not surprising given the man who sent it.

Harry drummed his fingers on his knees. Normally, in a situation like this, he’d ask Ron for a spot of advice, but Harry was unfortunately stuck on boring old Privet Drive by himself -- and the Dursleys, of course. Granted, the Dursleys were better behaved than in previous summers, all thanks to Professor Snape. The older wizard had saved him from the cupboard last summer, and this summer he’d not only made sure Harry was comfortably installed in Dudley’s second bedroom, but also that the Dursleys wouldn’t bother him. Uncle Vernon had been terrified out of his mind, and Aunt Petunia had looked like she’d seen a ghost. Needless to say, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had quickly and eagerly acquiesced to his request. Harry’s bedroom was comfortably furnished, and Dudley was not longer allowed to smack him with his Smeltings stick.

Harry helped himself to another chocolate biscuit and turned his attention back to the letter.

 

_Dear Harry,_

_If you have been keeping up with the news, I’m sure you have read a lot about me over the past couple of weeks. I have been indisposed of late, and finally have had a spare moment to write to you, just to clarify things and hopefully plan a time to meet in person._

_For the past thirteen years I’ve been wrongfully locked away in Azkaban prison. The_ Daily Prophet _has written more than enough on that. What they didn’t say was that your parents made me your godfather. I understand that you live with your aunt and uncle now, but unless Petunia has changed drastically over the years I’m sure she’s still a stiff, frigid woman. As your godfather, I can offer you an alternative home. I’m currently recuperating at Malfoy Manor, but in a few weeks I will be moving into my own residence in London._

_I can also tell you about your parents. James and I were very close during our Hogwarts years -- almost like brothers. I have photos of us during our school years that I’m sure you’d enjoy. Lucius tells me you are quite the Quidditch player -- following in James’ footsteps, I see!_

_In any regard, owl me if you would like to meet up and talk._

_Your godfather,_

_Sirius Black_

 

Harry stared at the parchment, lost, for a moment, in thought. He wanted to meet his godfather, and almost desperately so. He knew next to nothing about his parents, and Black provided him with a perfect opportunity to learn about them...if only the man hadn’t been stuck in Azkaban for the past twelve years. Harry was far from an expert on the wizard prison, but from his limited knowledge he knew that it was a cold and heinous place guarded by Dementors, which were creatures that could quite literally suck out your soul.

Idly, Harry wondered if Ron and his siblings were exempt from this since they had red hair. He dismissed the morbid thought. The wizarding world wouldn’t find the ginger joke quite as funny as he did.

Harry scanned the letter again. It was friendly enough, although the part about Aunt Petunia being a ‘stiff, frigid woman’ was a bit aggressive, especially given that Harry had never met Black. Either Black was generally a crass person, or Aunt Petunia had made a _really_ bad impression on him. Black wasn’t wrong, per say, but still…

_Lord Black --_

Harry scribbled the words out. It was far too formal, especially since the man had started off his letter so familiarly.

 

_Dear Sirius,_

_Thank you for sending me a letter. It would be great to talk about my parents sometime. I will be in Diagon Alley at the end of August to purchase my school supplies -- perhaps we can meet up then, if that is convenient for you._

_Thanks again,_

_Your godson,_

_Harry_

 

Harry neatly rolled the parchment, and whistled for Hedwig who fluttered over, holding her leg out.

“Take this to Sirius Black,” Harry said as he secured the letter to her leg. “He’s at Malfoy Manor, in Wiltshire.”

He shoved open his bedroom window, and Hedwig flew away. Harry flopped on his bed, grinning. Now that he’d been productive, it was time for him to thoroughly enjoy the rest of his birthday, starting off with the rest of Hermione’s chocolate biscuits and the lastest _Auror Bartleby_ book.

* * *

 

_Offices of the Daily Prophet_

_London, England_

_2 August 1993_

 

“Nervous, Harry?” Marcus asked.

Harry started. “What? No, I’m fine. Why?”

“You looked a little out of it, just then.”

“Oh. I was thinking.”

Marcus smirked. “I thought I smelled something burning.”

“Oh, shut it.” Harry looked around, then lowered his voice. “I was thinking about why.”

“Why what?”

“Why the team interview now? The tournament was over months ago.”

The Flint heir shrugged. “A PR move on the behalf of Fudge, if I had to guess.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Really?”

“He probably didn’t want to miss an opportunity to get more photos with the Boy Who

Lived.”

“Arghhh.”

Marcus snickered. “You know I’m right.”

Harry groaned dramatically. “It doesn’t mean I want to admit it.”

“Eh, that’s fair. It’s not just about you, either, you know.”

Harry stared. “What do you mean?”

“Think about who’s on the team. Me, you, the Weasleys, the Morans, heck, even Diggory.”

Harry thought for a moment. “What... _oh_.” They were all heirs to Wizengamot seats, with the exception of Aoife Moran and Cedric Diggory. “Wait, what do Aoife and Cedric have to do with anything?”

Marcus tapped the side of his nose. “Covens are matrilineal. Aedan is the heir to the Moran’s Wizengamot seat, but Aoife is next in line to head the coven.  As for Cedric, you’ve heard about the recent motion in the Wizengamot, right?”

Harry shook his head.

Marcus sighed. “Okay, well, you know how there always has to be prime number of seats in the House of Lords?”

“Yes.”

“There’s currently forty-one seats on the Wizengamot, counting those that are currently inactive. The next prime is forty-three, and there’s been talk of some of the Lower Houses ascending. If we’re going to be realistic, Rookwood, Runcorn, and Marchbanks are the three most likely to ascend, depending on the political calculus. If Lord Gaunt and his supporters get their way, it’ll be Rookwood and Runcorn, and if his bloc has to strike a deal with the Neutral-Traditionalists and Progressives, it’ll probably be Runcorn and Marchbanks.”

“But what about Diggory?”

“Two things,” Marcus began. “First, if enough of the Neutral-Traditionalists and Progressives bloc together, then Marchbanks and Diggory could ascend. Second, even if that doesn’t happen, the Diggorys are still on the proverbial shortlist of Houses that could make it to the Wizengamot.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask a another question when a pair of reporters walked in. He recognized Ralph Whizzle, the man who’d covered the Quidditch tournament, but the women’s identity was a mystery to him. Her bright red heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floors, matching her talon-like nails which clutched an alligator skin purse.

“Hello lads and ladies!” Whizzle said, grinning. “I’d like to introduce you to my colleague, Ms. Rita Skeeter, who will be helping with today’s article on the Hogwarts Quidditch team.”

Harry gulped. So this was the infamous Rita Skeeter.

“We’ll start off with individual interviews and photos. Those of you not in the first round of interviews can head to the second door on the left to have your photo taken. The first group of interviews will be Harry Potter, Marcus Flint, Aoife Moran, Fred Weasley, and George Weasley.”

Marcus looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. Clearly, the older boy had been correct about the _Prophet_ ’s extra motivations.

“Mr. Potter, we’ll take you first.”

Harry followed Whizzle and Skeeter into a small conference room. Skeeter snapped her gum loudly, then drew a roll of parchment and an acid green quill from her handbag.

“Harry -- You don’t mind if I call you Harry, right?” Skeeter began.

“Er, no.”

Skeeter smiled widely. “Do you mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill?”

Harry eyed the acid green quill. Hermione had warned him about the dangers of them. “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Harry said tactfully. “I’m okay if you use a DictaQuill, though.”

Something in Skeeter’s face tightened for the briefest of moments, but it was gone before Harry could figure out what it meant. The woman summoned a black DictaQuill from her bag, and set in on the parchment.

“Lovely. Let’s begin.”

Half an hour later, Harry exited the conference room, head spinning. Skeeter had positively bombarded him with questions, with Whizzle interjecting occasionally to turn the subject back to Quidditch. They’d covered everything from how long Harry had been playing to life in Slytherin to Harry’s opinion on Albus Dumbledore. He’d answered as honestly as possible while keep the answers sufficiently vague. Skeeter tried to bring up Sirius Black, but Whizzle had chosen that moment to remind Skeeter that she need to interview the rest of the team.

Harry rubbed his temples idly, feeling like he’d just dodged the proverbial bullet.

“That bad, eh?” Marcus asked.

Harry plonked himself down on the bench. “Lots of politics.”

Marcus smirked. “It’s only going to get worse, you know.”

Harry groaned. The last thing he needed in his life was more drama and attention.

* * *

 

_Unplottable Location_

_Western Isles, Scotland_

_9 August 1993_

 

Harry’s knees buckled slightly as the Portkey’s magic faded away, and he thankfully managed to hang onto his trunk. Feeling slightly nauseous, Harry looked around, trying to get his bearings. Steep granite cliffs cloaked in green moss soared upwards, and nestled between them were several Quidditch Pitches and a small group of cabins. Harry grinned, feelings of queasiness vanishing at the thought of flying.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, welcome!” Oscar Dagworth, the Recruiting Chairman for the British Quidditch League, was striding towards him. His goatee was just as neatly trimmed as it had been after the Tang Taizong match, and he was dressed in a sporty pair of khaki robes.

He held out a hand for Harry to shake, and Harry shook it.

“I hope your Portkey journey was smooth.”

“It was alright,” Harry allowed.

“Follow me this way, and I’ll show you to your cabin. Do you mind if I levitate your trunk?”

“Not at all.”

With a murmured word and a flick of Dagworth’s wand, Harry’s trunk floated behind them. Harry’s eyes roamed as they walked across the grassy field. They were quite high up, and far below the ocean sparkled invitingly.

“This,” Dagworth said, gesturing expansively, “is our elite training facility. The British national team practices here, and several of the professional teams, including the Falmouth Falcons and the Holyhead Harpies, use the facility for their own training events. We have three Quidditch Pitches, along with an aerial agility course. Cabins house four people. I believe two of your roommates have already arrived, and the fourth one will be arriving later this afternoon -- he’s on an international Portkey from Bulgaria.”

They stopped in front of a stone cabin.

“Here we are,” Dagworth said. “Cabin one.”

Dagworth opened the door. There was a small common area outfitted with squashy armchairs and a table. Several doors lead off it, presumably to bedrooms.

“You will be in room three.” Dagworth handed Harry a key. “I will leave you to unpack. There’s a meeting in three hours at the mess hall.”

With that, Dagworth left, leaving Harry alone. He inserted the key into the lock, and made his way into the room, dragging his trunk behind him. The furnishings were simple, and looked cozy. The quilt on the bed was a nice shade of Slytherin green, and there was even a desk provided.

Harry lugged his trunk to the foot of his bed and set about unpacking his clothes into the chest of drawers. He’d scarcely finished unloading his Quidditch robes when a light knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.”

A boy with brown curly hair poked his head in. “Just thought I’d say hello,” he said, accent slightly French. “I’m Talon duFeu.”

Harry stood up and offered his hand to shake. “Harry Potter. I think I’ve heard your surname before…”

“My cousin, Guillaume, teaches Potions at Hogwarts.”

“Ah. That’d be it.” Harry walked back towards his suitcase. “So, what position do you play?”

Talon grinned. “Chaser. I saw all the news about you in the Scholastic Quidditch tournament.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was a shame Beauxbatons lost first round to Castelobruxo. On the other hand, it means that there will be a lot of changes in our line up, and I’ll have a better chance at getting on our Quad-Cup team.”

“What’s the Quad-Cup team?”

“The Quad-Cup is a round-robin tournament we have every year with Olympus, Ferviditious, and Durmstrang.”

“Oh, that’s exciting. We don’t have anything like that at Hogwarts, but we do have the House Cup tournament between the four Hogwarts houses.”

“Houses?”

“Y’know, ones we’re Sorted into upon arrival to school?”    

Talon’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t have anything like that at Beauxbatons.”

“Oh. Okay, well, so there’s four houses at Hogwarts, named after our founders. There’s Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin…”

They chattered away as Harry finished unpacking, eventually moving to the armchairs in the living room. They’d just started debating whether Quidditch would be better if it was played with a Quod when the door to the cabin opened. A stocky boy with dark, heavy eyebrows walked in, trunk floating behind him. He blinked, then grinned.

“I vos vonding who I vould be living vith,” he said. “And now I see it is von of my brother’s rivals.” He held out a hand to Harry. “I’m Stefan -- Stefan Krum. My brother Viktor played against you in the tournament.”

“I’m Harry,” Harry said, somewhat needlessly.

“I don’t know you,” Stefan said, looking at Talon.

“Talon duFeu. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Stefan shook Talon’s hand. “You’re from France?”

“ _Oui_.”

“Ah.”

Harry looked at the two of them quizzically, feeling like he’d missed something very important.

“So,” Stefan began, “there are three of us here. Who is roommate number four?”

“Baptiste Malfoy.”

Harry made a face. “His cousin goes to my school.”

“Draco?”

“Yeah.”

A pained expression made its way onto Talon’s face. “I am so sorry for you. I’ve heard he’s awful.”

“You have no idea,” Harry said. “I’ve had to live with him.”

“That’s...unfortunate. Baptiste is nothing like his cousin, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Thank Merlin. I don’t think I could take another annoying Malfoy.”

Just then, the door opened again, and a blonde boy walked in.

“What’d I miss?”

* * *

 

_Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor_

_Diagon Alley, London_

_22 August 1993_

 

Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat and returned to his unrelenting attack on his chocolate sundae. His godfather was simultaneously everything he was expecting, and nothing like he expected at all. For a man who’d spent the last thirteen years in prison, he was remarkably sane. At the same time, he was rather jittery, which struck Harry as quite odd.

“So, Harry, which Hogwarts House are you in?”

Harry finished chewing his bite of ice cream. “Slytherin.”

Sirius winced.

“Sorry?” Harry asked, worried he’d brought up some sort of bad memory.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sirius said, although it was clearly not. “My whole family -- except me -- was in Slytherin, and they...they weren’t the best of people.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not to say that Slytherin is bad,” Sirius said hurriedly. “I just have some, er, _negative_ associations with it.”

“Okay.”

“Who are your friends in, uh, Slytherin?”

“Ron -- Ron Weasley,” Harry said immediately. “Theo Nott, Hermione Granger, and kind of Millicent Bulstrode because we both play Quidditch.”

“Quidditch.” Sirius seized the subject like it was a lifeline. “Your father loved to play Quidditch. He played Chaser, but he always had a Snitch he liked to play around with. What position do you play?”

“Seeker,” Harry said, grinning. “I played on the Hogwarts school team for the International Scholastic Quidditch Tournament.”

“The International what?”

“Scholastic Quidditch Tournament. We won, too.”

“Oh, wow, that’s something! How many teams were there?”

“Sixteen. Let’s see, there was Durmstrang Institute, Bombay Institute, Castelobruxo, Beauxbatons,” Harry began, ticking them off on his fingers. “Mahoutokoro, Mongolian Academy, Ilvermorny, Alexandria, Tang Taizong, Uluru School, Loihi, Choquequirao, Uagadou, Karakoram, and Koldovstoretz. And us, of course. We played Uagadou, Koldovstoretz, Tang Taizong, and Durmstrang.”

“And did you catch the Snitch in every game?”

Harry frowned. “No, I didn’t catch it in the Durmstrang game. We still won, though, because our Chasers are really good. And, I wasn’t too upset about it because the Durmstrang Seeker is really good -- he was on the Bulgarian junior national team, and he’ll probably make the national team. His younger brother is my age, actually, and he was one of my roommates at Quidditch camp.”

“And how was Quidditch camp?” Sirius seemed content to let Harry do all the talking, so long as it was about Quidditch.

“It was a lot of fun!” Harry enthused. “They were really impressed with my Wronski Feint, although one time I wasn’t looking where I was going and I broke Baptiste’s nose!”

“Baptiste...Malfoy?”

“Yeah. He was one of my other roommates. Luckily, he’s nothing like Draco!” Harry paused, remembering that Sirius and Draco were cousins. “Uh, sorry if you like him, him being your cousin and all.”

Sirius stretched back in his chair. “Nah, I’m not the biggest Draco Malfoy fan.”

“Good, because I lived with him the past two years and he’s _awful_ . He’s really annoying, and he leaves his socks _everywhere_. I was going to jinx them, but I couldn’t think of a good one.”

Sirius snickered. “I might have just the thing for you, then. Listen closely…”


	4. Back to School

# 

_ Platform Nine and Three Quarters _

_ King’s Cross Station, England _

_ 31 August 1993 _

 

Hermione scanned the platform, craning her neck for any sign of her friends. Standing on her tiptoes, she managed to catch a glimpse of long white blonde hair. She paused for a moment to levitate her trunk, then wound her way through the crowd.  

“Lily!” 

“Hermione!” The taller girl bounced forward and wrapped Hermione in a hug. “It’s so good to see you! How was your summer?” 

“It was pretty interesting! I went to Paris with my parents, so that was a lot of fun. How was your summer?” 

“Interesting as well, I’ll tell you more about it on the train. Oh, these are my parents,” Lily said, gesturing to the couple behind her. The man was tall, and long-limbed with the same white blonde hair as Lily and odd, purplish eyes. The woman was shorter, with similar coloring, although her eyes were blue instead of purple. “Hermione, meet my father, Lord August Moon, and my mother, Lady Artemis Moon.” 

“Pleasure,” Hermione managed. 

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” Lady Moon said kindly. “Lily speaks of you frequently.” 

Hermione smiled awkwardly. “All good things, I hope.” 

“Of course.” 

“Oooh, look, there’s Millie!” Lily interrupted, pointing. 

Sure enough, Millie was making her way through the crowded platform with her little brother in tow. 

“Wow, she got tall over the summer!” 

“Yeah. Who do you think will be taller: Millie or Ron?” 

Hermione shrugged.

“Hullo,” Millie said, slightly out of breath. “Are you two ready to get a compartment? Mum wants me to make sure this one --” she jerked her thumb towards her brother “--gets settled nicely on the Express.”  

Millie’s brother scowled and tried to kick her in the shins. Millie gave him a look, clearly not pleased. 

“This is my brother Edmund. He’s a menace.” 

Edmund tried to kick Millie in the shins again. “Millicent,” he whined. “We need to get

on the train.”  

Millie rolled her eyes. “We have plenty of time.” 

“But Millicent…” 

“Fine.” 

Lady Moon smiled. “I suppose that’s our cue to say goodbye. Good luck at school, dear. Be sure to write.” 

“I will, Mum.” 

“Stay out of trouble,” Lord Moon said. 

“Dad!” 

“We’ll miss you. See you at Yule.” 

Lily hugged her parents goodbye, and the four of them made their way onto the train. They were lucky enough to bump into two of Edmund’s friends right away, and they left Edmund with the two other boys. 

“C’mon,” Millie said. “Let’s go find a compartment.” 

They headed down the train and eventually settled into a compartment near the end. 

“I’m so glad the dorm situation is different this year,” Lily said as they stowed their trunks. “I can’t imagine trying to live with Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey for another year.” 

Hermione nodded in agreement. Instead of living in one big dorm room like they had first and second year, they’d be moving into the third year suite, which had two triples connected by a small common area. Hermione was living with Lily and Millie, and they’d stay together until fifth year. During fifth year, they’d move into a new suite where the prefect would get a single. Hermione was planning on becoming a prefect.  

“I wonder how the boys are set up,” Millie said. 

“Dunno. We could ask them when they -- oh, there’s Harry and Ron! Oi!” 

They waved furiously as the compartment door slid open. 

“Mind if we join?” 

“Of course not!” 

“So,” Millie began, “are the two of you rooming together?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, running a hand through his hair.  “Thank Merlin we got a double.” 

“Who’s in the other double?”

“Vince and Greg.”

“Oh, did Theo and Blaise get stuck with Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh...that’s rough.”

“You have no idea,” said Ron. “He’s so obnoxious.”

“Draco leaves his socks  _ everywhere _ ,” Harry added. “And they’re the dumbest socks -- who even wears argyle socks with tiny snakes embroidered on them?” 

Lily snorted delicately. “Apparently Draco does.”

“ _ Yeah _ .” 

“How were your summers?” Hermione asked. 

“Mine was great!” Ron enthused. “The Junior Cursebreaker program at Gringotts is so cool. Harry and I went to a Chudley Cannons game, too, and I got a pair of  _ signed _ Chudley Cannons robes.” 

“They look so bad with his hair,” Harry said, clearly thrilled by the prospect.

Hermione groaned. “What about you, Harry?”

“Well, I went to Quidditch Camp, and that was pretty fun. One of Draco’s cousins was my roommate.”

“Oh, no.”

“He wasn’t that bad, actually. He was kind of stuck up, but a really good Chaser. Plus, I got all sorts of good dirt on Draco.”

“No way! What did he say?”

Harry grinned. “So, Baptiste -- that’s Draco’s cousin’s name -- told me about this one time Draco and his parents visited them in France. Now, Draco doesn’t speak French very well…” 

Harry went on to regale them about Draco’s misadventures in France. It was all very amusing. Before they knew it, the compartment door slid open. 

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” 

The five of them jumped to their feet and nearly tripped over themselves in a hurry to get to the trolley first. The boys bought way too many sweets, in Hermione’s opinion. 

“What’s everyone taking for classes this year?” Lily asked as they munched. “I’m taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.” 

“Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures,” said Hermione. 

“Same for me,” said Ron.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were only taking Arithmancy and Creatures?” 

“I was, but then the curse breaking stuff was bloody fascinating, and you need Runes for that.”

“Oh. What about you, Harry?”

“Ancient Runes and Creatures,” Harry answered through a mouthful of pumpkin pasty. 

“I’m taking Ancient Runes and Creatures as well,” Millie said. “What did you think of the Creatures textbook?”

“The Monster Book of Monsters? It’s awful! It almost bit my finger off!” 

“I had to belt mine shut.”

“I couldn’t figure it out either,” Hermione admitted. “I got a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them from Flourish and Blotts so I wouldn’t be going in completely blind, but what sort of professor assigns a biting book?”

“Not Kettleburn,” Ron said. “He retired.” 

“Huh. Do you know who’s teaching Wizarding Studies?” Hermione asked. “Also, what’s the deal with that? I get that we have Muggle Studies, but why add Wizarding Studies now?”

Ron, Lily, and Millie exchanged a look. 

“What?” Hermione demanded.

“Ah, about that,” Ron began. “It’s...complicated.” 

“Why? It’s just a course offering. I mean, I don’t get why it’s mandatory, though.” 

Ron sighed. “Get ready for a long explanation, then. How much do you know about politics?” 

“A fair bit. I know there’s the House of Lords, and the House of Commons.” 

“...okay, that’s a start, but how much do you actually know about the various political factions?” 

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to remember what she’d read in the  _ Daily Prophet. _ “The Traditionalists are one group, right? They’re isolationist, and believe that Muggles have a negative influence and destroy Wizarding culture. Then there’s the Progressives, who want to modernize and accept muggleborns.” 

“Kind of,” Ron allowed. “It’s a lot more nuanced than that. There’s three factions -- four, really, if you count the Modernists, but I don’t since they haven’t got any representation on the House of Lords, and they’ve got minimal representation in the House of Commons. Anyway, Modernists aside, you’ve got three main groups: the Blood Purists, the Traditionalists, and the Progressives. You can think of the Blood Purists as an extreme wing of the Traditionalists -- they believe that muggleborns shouldn’t enter Wizarding society at all and if they should be included, it should be in a servile role. There’s, let’s see, how many Blood Purists?” 

“There’s ten in the House of Lords,” Millie supplied. 

“That’s so many!” Hermione exclaimed, feeling outraged. 

“Look, it’s less than a fourth,” Ron said placatingly.  “Next, we have the Traditionalists. Basically, they believe in isolation from Muggles and preserving Wizarding culture. They’re decently divided on the issue of muggleborns. Some Traditionalists believe that muggleborns shouldn’t be accepted at all because they pose too much of a risk to our culture and the Statute of Secrecy. Others believe that muggleborns should be integrated as soon as they first show signs of magic.” 

Hermione’s mind spun. “What do you mean, integrated immediately?” 

“They think that  muggleborns, as soon as they are born, should be removed from their muggle families and be fostered or adopted by wizarding families.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“I’m not saying I believe that!”

Hermione sighed. “Does anyone think that muggleborns are okay?”

“I’m getting to it!  The last Traditionalist subgroup believes that muggleborns should stay with their birth families, but attend a Wizarding primary school. The muggleborn issue, among several others, divides these three factions of the Traditionalists into two groups: the Traditionalists, who tend to have stricter policies against muggleborns, and the Neutral-Traditionalists, who have less strict policies on muggleborns. In the Wizengamot, there’s fourteen seats held by Traditionalists, and twelve held by Neutral-Traditionalists.” 

Hermione did some quick math. “What about the other five seats?”

“Those are aligned with the Progressives. The Progressives want to pass reforms to decrease the power of the House of Lords, and accept muggleborns and muggle culture because it adds diversity to our society.” 

“And which of these do you believe in?”

“Before my father died, House Weasley was Progressive,” Ron said. “My oldest brother, Bill, has been waffling over switching to Neutral-Traditionalist.”

“Oh really?” Lily asked, curiosity clearly piqued. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yes, and you can stop trying to be political.” 

Lily shrugged elegantly. “What can I say? I’m the heir.” 

“I never know whether to be jealous of you or not,” Millie grumbled. “House Bulstrode is patrilineal, so my little brother is going to inherit.” 

A strange feeling dawned on Hermione. “Wait, are all of you members of Wizengamot families?” 

Harry nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

“Is anyone in our year in Slytherin not?”

“Sure,” Lily said. “Vince, Greg, Tracey, and Blaise all aren’t.”

Hermione goggled. “Tracey isn’t?”  
“No. For all the airs she puts on she’s actually a halfblood.”

“What!?” 

“You heard me correctly.” 

“Then how does she pal around with Pansy and Daphne all the time?” 

“I dunno. Her father is extremely wealthy, though, even though he’s a muggleborn. Her mother was a Runcorn before she married, so that helps as well.” 

Hermione groaned, head in her hands. “Why does everything have to be about blood?”

“It’s not  _ all _ about blood. Nobby Leach was the Minister of Magic between ‘62 and ‘68, and he was a muggleborn.” 

“...okay.”

“Look, let’s talk about something that’s not politics.”

The conversation devolved into a debate about Quidditch, and before Hermione knew it, they were hurriedly changing into their robes and piling into the horseless carriages. The Great Hall was exactly how she remembered it -- the high, vaulted ceiling was bewitched to look like the night sky, and the long House tables were stretched across the room. They quickly commandeered a section at the middle of the Slytherin table, and Hermione only half-paid attention to the Sorting Hat’s song. 

“Bulstrode, Edmund!” Professor McGonagall called. 

Hermione belatedly realized she’d missed the first couple of students to be sorted. 

“SLYTHERIN!” 

Millie groaned good-naturedly. “I’m glad he’s in our House, but at the same time, I kind of wish he wasn’t.” 

“Crawleigh, Derek!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

Hermione zoned out again, clapping once more when Greengrass, Astoria was sorted into Slytherin. After far too many names, they were almost done. 

“Umbridge, Alma!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Vane, Romilda!” 

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. At long last, the sorting was over. 

Professor Dumbledore stood. “Welcome, students new and old. Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words: gobemouche, mimsy, bawbee, alcazar. Tuck in.”

The gold plates in front of them immediately filled with food, and Hermione helped herself to a healthy serving of mashed potatoes. Conversation quickly turned from summer adventures to Quidditch. 

“So,” Theo asked through a mouthful of peas, “what do you all think our chances are of winning the House Cup this year?” 

“That’s a loaded question,” Harry commented. 

“Yeah, so?”

“Just saying,” Harry said, grinning. 

“Well, what do you think our chances are?”

“Dunno, depends on who the other teams bring in. We graduated three of our people, so that’s going to be a bit rough.”

“Hey!” Ron interjected. “I’ll let you know that I’m just as good as Bletchley was!” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. And next you’ll be playing for England.”

Ron snickered. “No, that’s Malfoy.” 

Harry groaned. “I forgot he was on the team.”

“ _ I  _ won’t be forgetting he’s on the team,” Theo said morosely. “I have to  _ live _ with him.”

“Eh, that’s rough.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“You’ll have to deal with His Royal Sock Scatterer all year long,” Harry chimed in. 

Theo banged his forehead against the table. “Please, just give me some good news about our Quidditch team smashing the tournament this year.” 

“It all depends,” Ron said. “We will have those Nimbus 2001s, but that’s not really going to help us much if our players are rubbish -- sorry, if one of our players is rubbish. Ravenclaw’s team also had a bunch of people graduate, and same with Hufflepuff. Gryffindor is the only one that didn’t change.”

“Boo.”

“Yeah, they stink. But I’m sure Harry and Marcus have all the details on them, right, Harry?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I have information. All of it.” 

Ron smirked. “Sure. Anyway, Theo, I have a couple ideas about Malfoy, and Harry got a  _ really _ good idea from his godfather. You’re going to have to get Blaise in on the plan, though…” 

Hermione tuned them out, mind wandering back to the discoveries she’d made with Ron and Harry last year. She had the feeling they should probably do something about the basilisk. Her thoughts floated back to the Chamber, and the library. It’d be such a nice study space to have, if only she could learn enough Parseltongue to open it on her own. Asking Harry to open the library every time she wanted to study was annoying. 

Soon, the dessert plates had faded away into the table and the Headmaster stood again. “Now that you are all fed and watered, I have several start-of-term announcements. First off, we have two new professors this year: Professor Lupin, who will teach first and second year Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Rookwood, who will teach our new Wizarding Studies class. We also have some exciting news regarding Professor Snape. Last year, he was able to reunite with some of his family, and will now go by Professor Prince.

“Mr. Filch, our caretaker, would like to remind you that Fanged Frisbees are still on the list of prohibited items, as well as Biting Boomerangs. For the full inventory of banned items, please visit the list posted outside of Mr. Filch’s office.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. None of the Slytherins were dumb enough to get caught with contraband items. Even Crabbe and Goyle were smarter than that. 

“Tryouts for House Quidditch teams will occur in the upcoming weeks. Information will be posted on the notice board in your respective common rooms. Now, that is enough of an old man’s babble. Your beds await. Off you go now, pip pip!” 

There was a small commotion as the entire student body stood up, and prefects chivied first years into line. Hermione stretched. “So, what do you all think of the new Defense professor?”

“He looks ill,” Millie said. 

“Reckon he’ll even last the first term?” 

Millie looked skeptical. “Dunno. He looked really ill. I’m just glad we have Professor Scrimgeour for Defense this year, everyone says he’s great.” 

Hermione grinned. “I can’t wait.”


	5. Unexpected Discoveries

_Godric’s Hollow_

_England_

_2 September 1993_

 

The cottage was nice, Rita supposed. It had a small flower garden out in front, and an overall charming air. Rita raised her knuckles and rapped sharply on the door. Shuffling footsteps could be heard inside, and after several moments, the door creaked open.

“Ms. Skeeter? Please, come in.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bagshot.”

The old woman led her into a small sitting room filled with homely furniture and too many crocheted blankets.  “I was ever so surprised when I received your owl. Not many people want to talk to an old witch any more.”

Rita pasted her most flattering smile onto her face. “Well, I for one am happy to speak with you. It’s well known that you know just about everything about everyone.”

Bathilda smiled. “I don’t think I would go that far, but thank you. What was it you wished to know? Your letter was not terribly clear.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about Thomas Gaunt.”

The older woman started. “Thomas Gaunt?”

“Yes.”

Bathilda’s jaw tightened. “Why do you wish to know about Thomas Gaunt?”

“Curiosity.”

“Hmph. Curiosity kills, you know.”

“I am careful.”

“Mm, but not careful enough. It does not matter. I know nothing of the man called Thomas Gaunt.”

Rita’s mind sputtered for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I know nothing about him, and cannot help you.”

“How do you explain a Wizengamot Lord appearing out of nowhere?” Rita demanded.

“I don’t try to explain anything, merely observe. Perhaps some men are made, rather than born, eh?”

Rita stared at the old woman in confusion. Had Bathilda finally lost her marbles?

“Do you have any other questions for me, Ms. Skeeter?”

Rita’s mind raced. She couldn’t be done speaking to Bathilda. Not yet. She hadn’t gotten any information, for Merlin’s sake! Her mind panicked as she looked around the room, hoping to get inspiration for a question somewhere. Days later, when she reflected on the moment, she would call it a flash of genius. During interviews for her exposé, she would call the question deliberate, as that’s what sparked a new chapter in her career.

“Who is the boy in the picture?” Rita asked, pointing at the small photo of a blonde boy.

“My nephew. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“What’s your nephew’s name?”

“Gellert Grindelwald.”

It took all of Rita’s Slytherin instincts to keep from gasping aloud. Gellert Grindelwald, the mass murderer, was related to _Bathilda Bagshot_ of all people? What was the world even coming to?

“I never knew you were related to Gellert Grindelwald,” Rita commented as she tried to marshal her thoughts.

“Most don’t.”

“What was he like, when he was young?”

Bathilda’s eyes misted over. “Brilliant. More than brilliant. I didn’t see him much since he attended Durmstrang, but even as a tiny lad, he had ideas beyond his years. After he was expelled from Durmstrang, he spent the summer here with me in Godric’s Hollow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as happy as when he and Albus would get together and make plans.”

“Albus?”

“Albus Dumbledore, of course. Who else has ever been able to match Gellert’s intellect?”

“I suppose no one. How did Gellert and Albus meet?”

Bathilda shrugged. “I don’t remember, exactly. They were strangers, then suddenly the best of friends. Sometimes, one of them would be so struck by an idea that they would owl each other in the middle of the night!”

Rita palmed her wand. “Do you happen to have any of those letters?”

Bathilda thought for a moment. “Yes, yes, I think I do. I’m not giving them away, though.”

“ _Confundus_ ,” Rita murmured.

Bathilda’s eyes glazed over, and she shook her head to clear it. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?”

“You said you could show me the letters your nephew left.”

Bathilda frowned. “Oh. Right. I’ll be just a moment, then. These knees are old.” She shuffled off, and Rita took a moment to compose herself as her thoughts ran rampant. Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald had been _friends_. The revelation was groundbreaking, and one that certainly wasn’t detailed in the history books. Rita would have to spend some serious time researching this -- the Gaunt project would have to go on hold, unfortunately. Ruining Dumbledore’s reputation was always high on her list of things to do.

Bathilda shuffled back into the room holding a small pasteboard box. “Here you are.”

Rita took the box carefully with her left hand. “Thank you, Bathilda, for your help.” She brandished her wand with her right hand. “ _Obliviate._ ” Rita carefully edited the conversation about Grindelwald out of Bathilda’s mind, then arranged herself neatly on the chesterfield, pasteboard box tucked into her robes. Bathilda blinked several times in confusion.

“I’m terribly sorry, my mind went elsewhere for a moment.”

Rita waved away Bathilda’s apology. “No worries, Mrs. Bagshot. Now, I was wondering if you could tell me more about the evolution of Wizengamot structure.”

Bathilda smiled. “Certainly. Would you care for tea?”

“Please. White, with two sugars.”

Bathilda waved her wand, and the tea set busied itself. “Now, if we are to discuss the Wizengamot, we’d best start at the beginning, which would be the Council of Lords, and one cannot discuss the Council of Lords without discussing its founder, William Prince, and his close friend and advisor, Damien Slytherin…”

Bathilda rambled on about the intricacies of history as Rita sipped her tea and pretended to focus. After an hour of Bathilda’s drivel, Rita was finally able to make her excuses and leave, disapparating with a slight pop.

Rita straightened her robes, and marched into the foyer of the _Daily Prophet_ building where she was immediately greeted by Gresco, her moronic boss.

“You weren’t gone for long,” he said pointedly. “I thought you had a lead.”

“I might still have a lead. Give me two hours.” Rita stalked off to her office, leaving Gresco floundering by himself in the lobby. Rita ignored the various employees who tried to bother her, instead beelining to her office where she cast half a dozen privacy spells before sitting down at her desk and opening the box. There were numerous rolls of parchment instead, all of them yellowed and faded with the date written on the outside. With trembling fingers, Rita pulled the first letter out of the box and began to read.

 

_30 June 1898_

_Gellert -_

_Your point about wizard dominance being for the muggles’ own good -- this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point; it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control for the Greater Good. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.)_

_Albus_

 

 

_21 July 1898_

_Gellert -_

_You may dismiss it as unimportant, but I just stumbled upon the most brilliant piece of muggle philosophy that perfectly outlines our cause. The muggle philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau said that ‘_ _In order to retain its essentially moral character, government must thus rest on the consent of the governed.’ As long as we are benevolent rulers, the muggles will consent to our rule, making us far more moral and just than the current governments of both our and their worlds._ _We can therefore use the muggles’ own words to support our arguments -- how shocked our opponents will be -- they will never see this coming. I believe this may be a new avenue of scholarship for us to pursue. I know you have no great love for muggle literature, but I have sent the book over with your owl in hopes you will read it. I am eager for us to begin paving the way to a bright new future!_

_Regards,_

_Albus_

 

Rita stared. She couldn’t believe it. Dumbledore had helped to formulate Grindelwald’s philosophy. “ _Accio Grindelwald’s Treatise on Muggles_.”

The book zoomed from the warded section of her shelf, and Rita quickly paged through it, looking for a particular section. Jaw dropping, she found it.

_In fact, the muggles’ own philosophy justifies our rule over them. The French muggle Jean-Jacques Rousseau expounds upon the belief that ‘in order to retain its essentially moral character, government must thus rest on the consent of the governed.’_ _By remaining as just rulers over our inferiors, wizardkind can demonstrate what a truly moral government resembles, and we can continue to lead the muggles into the Age of Enlightenment._

Rita’s eyes darted back and forth between the words in Grindelwald’s own book and the words penned by a teenaged Albus Dumbledore. It was impossible to ignore the similarities.

 

_31 August 1898_

  _Gellert -_

_You would not believe how relieved I am that Aberforth is back at Hogwarts. The house is much quieter without his disruptive, uncouth presence, and I no longer must bear his constant criticisms of your character. He says the crudest of things, which is quite rich given the company he keeps. While I do have to look after Ariana, I should have more available time now that I no longer must suffer Aberforth’s drunken escapades. Mother is most disappointed in him, but her health is declining, and she can do little to mitigate his willful actions. It is terrible of me to think this, but sometimes I wish I had no brother. He is such a burden on my shoulders, holding me back from reaching my true potential. Ariana, too. I am more forgiving of her, though. It is not her fault she cannot control her magic, but rather that of the muggle boys who cruelly taunted her._

_For the sake of my sister, I sincerely hope our endeavor succeeds. We must create a world where all magic users do not have to be afraid. I will not go to my grave until a tangible difference is made. This, I do swear. No wizarding child should have to suffer as Ariana does._

_Yours,_

_Albus_

 

_16 December 1898_

  _Gellert -_

_Aberforth is home for the winter holidays, and I cannot even begin to detail how terrible he has been. I do not wish to bore you with my petty woes, but he is quite insufferable! You truly are the only one keeping me sane, Gellert, and I do not know what I would do without your discourse. Perhaps my mind would simply wither away, like an unused muscle. I have you to thank for keeping my mind -- and my hope -- alive._

_Aberforth continues to mock me for my lack of a wife. I do not understand his fixation on this, especially given his own proclivities. Who is he to make accusations of me? Does your aunt make such comments to you? I would imagine not! I fail to understand why my inclination for studying and learning needs to be discussed on a daily basis. Do most ‘normal’ young men only think of women? The thought seems preposterous! If this was the case, how would our society continue to advance?_

_But I digress. I have been learning as much as possible about the Deathly Hallows as I can, and I concede they may exist! Such a discovery would be infinitely useful to our cause. Just imagine the power we would have with the Wand of Destiny at our side! The Resurrection Stone, too. We could gain such wisdom! The Cloak would also be useful, if we needed to hide an individual or an object._

_I am currently working on tracing the three Hallows. The Wand of Destiny will definitely be the easiest to find as it leaves a bloodied path in its wake._

_I look forward to our next meeting._

_Yours,_

_Albus_

 

Rita massaged her temples, baffled by the sudden change in direction from political ideology to the Deathly Hallows. It seemed as if Grindelwald and Dumbledore believed the legendary artifacts were real, which was completely and utterly preposterous. Rita rifled through the box, hoping to find more letters detailing the tracing of the Deathly Hallows, but there were none. Sighing, she plucked another letter out of the box.

 

_31 January 1899_

_Dear Gellert,_

_I think something is wrong with me._

 

Rita frowned, quickly cross-referencing the other letters. Dumbledore had never addressed a letter with ‘dear Gellert’. Rita scanned the page, looking for the rest of the message. The wrinkled parchment yield nothing. Frustration surged through her. What if there was a hidden message, a secret code that she needed to use to reveal the information.

“ _Aparecium!_ ” she encanted. Nothing happened. Gritting her teeth, she made her way onto the next letter. This one was riddled with cross outs, and illegible except for one single line.

 

_8 February 1899_

_Dear Gellert,_

_I have a confession to make._

 

Ink splotches littered the rest of the page, making it impossible for Rita to interpret what Dumbledore had written. The next letter was only slightly better, and after ten minutes of squinting at the text, Rita was able to parse the lines together.

 

_22 February 1899_

_Dear Gellert,_

_I can no longer keep this to myself._

_There is something horribly and irrevocably wrong with me._

_I am scared of what I am. I do not know what to do. For once, I am at a loss for both actions and words. I fear you will hate me once you know the truth. Despite her words, I know Mother does._

_I am a monster._

_I am pathetic._

_A sinner. A dead man walking. An abomination._

_There is no way to escape. I have already tried. I make myself ill, thinking of what I am. I feel lost, hopelessly lost, drifting in a sea of despondency, choking on the drink they call loneliness._

_I wish I was brave enough to tell your this earlier._

_I am a homosexual, Gellert._

_And I think I am in love with you._

 

The letter fell from nerveless fingers as Rita sat and stared. Dumbledore was _gay_ ? Dumbledore had been _in love_ with Gellert Grindelwald? It seemed impossible, but the words were written in Dumbledore’s own hand. Come to think of it, he’d alluded to his own gayness in earlier letters, too. Had he always known? When had he fallen in love with Grindelwald? Dumbledore had been somewhat less robust after his infamous duel with Grindelwald, and Rita couldn’t imagine the emotional damage that had been inflicted.

Rita stretched, back popping after too many hours spent hunched over old letters. This could be big. This could propel her career to new heights -- she could possibly leave the _Daily Prophet_ and start her own political intrigue magazine. Rita gazed out of her window, contemplating the endless possibilities before her and wondering how difficult -- and how illegal -- it would be to schedule an interview with Gellert Grindelwald.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I’ve received a couple comments in the reviews about keeping all the minor OCs, especially the international ones, straight. I’ve started adding content to a website, thechessmasterseries[dot]blogspot[dot]com that has some basic information on the minor OCs and the government. It’s very much a work in progress, but the information is there if you are interested. :)


	6. Fears and Foibles

_Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_14 September 1993_

 

Ron stretched and yawned. The double room he shared with Harry was a bit small, but it was blissfully free of Draco’s socks and Vince and Greg’s snores. Ron rolled out of bed and glanced over at Harry in a moment of brief jealousy. Harry wasn’t taking Arithmancy, so he got to sleep in on Tuesday mornings while Ron had to be ready for first period class. Sighing, Ron conducted his morning business, pulled on his uniform, and headed to the Great Hall. Hermione was already there, of course, nose buried in _Numerology and Grammatica_. Sometimes Ron wondered why she hadn’t ended up in Ravenclaw.

“How’s the textbook?” Ron asked, sliding onto the bench next to her.

“Informative,” Hermione said, eyes glued to the page.

“Shocking. I would never believe a textbook could be informative,” Ron deadpanned.

“You’re impossible.”

Ron finished spreading marmalade onto his toast. “Got it in one.”

They ate in silence as the Great Hall began to fill with students, and sooner than Ron would have liked, they had to head up to Arithmancy. They arrived with several minutes to spare, and settled themselves into the desks. At precisely 7:45, Professor Boyet walked into the room.

“Good morning, class. I see I didn’t scare any of you away last week. We’ll begin by taking attendance, then continue with our discussion of fundamental Arithmantic principles. Bones… Boot… Brocklehurst… Corner… Cornfoot… Entwhistle… Goldstein… Granger… Li… MacDougal… Malfoy… Moon… Nott… Patil… Rivers… Smith… Spinks… Turpin… Weasley… Zabini…

“Excellent, everyone is present. Now, who remembers from our last class how to calculate the probability of a random event?”

Hermione’s hand shot into the air.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“The probability of a random event is equal to that event over the total number of

events.”

“Correct, two points to Slytherin. If I were to toss a Sickle one time, what is the

probability that I get heads? Mr. Rivers?”

“One over two, or one-half.”

“Correct, two points to Hufflepuff. If I were to toss a fair six-sided die, what is the

probability I get two or six? Miss MacDougal?”

“Two over six, which simplifies to one over three, or one-third.”

“Correct, two points to Ravenclaw. Now, while predicting the probabilities of events is

interesting enough, does anyone know what our end goal is? Mr. Weasley?”

“The goal is to put all of your probabilities into a single equation, which is usually achieved via the use of matrix manipulation,” Ron answered. The question was easy enough -- he’d spent the entire summer doing linear algebra.

“Correct, two points to Slytherin. Everyone please take out a quill and parchment. A matrix is a mathematical array of numbers or expressions that can be treated as a single entity. They are a cornerstone of Arithmancy, but before we delve deeper into what matrices are and how to manipulate them, we will first review basic algebra…”

The rest of the class whizzed by. The material was pretty rudimentary from Ron’s perspective, but some of the other students seemed to be struggling a bit. Next up was History of Magic, which was rather dull. Somehow, Professor Binns made the fall of the Inca Empire seem more like a Sleeping Potion.

“And then,” Professor Binns droned, “after the death of the god-king Huayna Capac, a war began to break out between his sons, Huáscar, the next god-king, and Atahualpa, the self-proclaimed witch-king of Quito. Under the witch-king of Quito were three sorcerer-generals: Chalchuchima, Quisquis, and Rumiñahui. While god-king Huáscar ruled most of the empire from his seat in Cuzco, witch-king Atahualpa had a small holdout in Quito, which was in the northern reaches of the empire. More importantly, Atahualpa had the loyalty of the three strongest sorcerer-generals, and the might of the Inca army.

“The Inca did not use wands when they went into battle, and as you should all remember from last year, wands were a Roman influence. The Inca used staffs made from heartwood, and had a strong affinity for elemental magic. The god-kings of the Inca empire claimed to be descendants of the sun itself and could allegedly call forth a sea of a thousand flames to smite their foes. This is likely exaggerated, and any documentation of such spellwork has been lost to history.

“For your homework,” Binns continued, monotone, “you will complete the textbook reading on the witch-king of Quito and write a foot long essay about his approach to conquering the Inca Empire. Class dismissed.” Binns floated back through the chalkboard, and Ron sighed. History of Magic had so much potential to be an interesting class; this year they’d be learning about American history, starting with the great empires of the Inca, Aztec, and Mayan sorcerers, the rebellion of the First Nations, and then the secession of Cascadia and modern MACUSA policy. There was so much action, so much drama, and all of it was wasted by Binns and his boringness.

Hermione bounced over. “Ready for Defense?”

Ron grinned. “‘Course I am. Our squad is definitely going to do the best.”

“We better,” Hermione said fervently. “Millie, Lily, Theo, and Blaise are definitely our main competition, and I don’t want to lose.”

Ron nodded. The third year Slytherin DADA class had been allowed to divide itself into squads consisting of three to four people, and at least one witch and one wizard per group.

Harry caught up with them in the hallway. “Have you two thought about what your fear will be?”  

“I thought about it a lot, and I’m not entirely certain,” Hermione said. “Being tied up and helpless might be one, though.”

“And how would you make that funny?”

“I’d imagine that whatever was holding me down was made made out of Silly String.”

Harry chuckled, and Ron felt confused.

“What’s Silly String?”

“It’s a Muggle thing. Anyway, Ron, what do you think your fear is?”

“Failure.”

“Oh. Er, and how are you going to make that funny.”

“Dunno. Depends how how it’s presented, I suppose.”

“...okay. And what about you, Harry?”

Harry ruffled a hand through his hair. “It’s going to sound dumb.”

“I’m sure it’s not dumb!”

“Disappointment. Specifically, my parents, if they were here and could see me, being

disappointed.”

“Oh...I think they’d be proud of you! But, anyway, how are you going to make that funny?”

“Not sure. Fart noises?”

“Harry!”

“What? It’d be funny.”

Ron snickered.

“Ronald!” Hermione protested.

“It would be kind of funny,” Ron admitted. “Especially if you forced your father into full Wizengamot attire…”

Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “boys”.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late to class!”

   They hurried down the hallway, and arrived to class with plenty of time to spare. Several minutes later, Professor Scrimgeour arrived, took roll, then began lecture.

“Boggarts, as you should recall from our previous class, are an amoral, non-being shapeshifters that manifest as your worst fear. It’s always best to face a boggart in groups because it will be more difficult for the boggart to settle on a form. There have been several recorded instances of boggarts, when faced with two or more individuals, attempting to turn into an amalgamation of their fears. As you may be able to imagine, a boggart that turns into half a Flesh-Eating Slug and half a beheaded corpse is not nearly as frightening as either of those by themselves.

“The Boggart-Repelling Charm has the incantation _Riddikulus_. Who remembers what makes the Boggart-Repelling Charm more difficult to cast than some of the other charms you’ve learned thus far in Hogwarts? Miss Granger?”

“The Boggart-Repelling Charm has an emotional component, rather than just intent and visualization like the Levitation Charm.”

“Correct, three points to Slytherin. The Boggart-Repelling Charm is the most simple of the esoteric Charms, which are Charms that require a particular emotional focus. Can anyone name another esoteric Charm? Mr. Nott?”

“The Patronus Charm.”

“Correct, two points to Slytherin. The Patronus Charm counters dementors as well as lethifolds. Dementors, like boggarts, feed off human emotion, which is why the charm against them also has an emotional component. When we defend against boggarts with the Boggart-Repelling Charm, the emotion we must focus on is happiness, specifically humor. When you encounter the boggart, it will morph into your greatest fear, and your job is to find a way to make your fear humorous. You will hold this silly image in your mind while incanting the spell, _Riddikulus_ . The wand motion is simple -- an upward swish starting when you say the _di_ portion of the incantation.

“Now, for homework, you all thought  about your greatest fear and possible ways to make it funny, correct? Now, I would like you to split into your squads and list your top three fears as well as at least two ways to make each fear humorous. When all your group members have written their fears down, you will rotate the parchment and brainstorm other ways to make your squad’s fears funny. Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, professor,” the class chorused.

“You may break into your squads now.”

There was a scraping as desks were re-arranged. Ron took a piece of parchment out of his bag and inked his quill. After a moment’s thought, he began to write.

_Fears:_

_Failure -- my mum starts doing a happy dance, Malfoy trips over his robes_

_Becoming an outcast -- it’s a joke and they’re actually throwing me a birthday party_

_Spiders -- legs fall off, the spider gets stuck in its own web_

Ron stared at his notes. They were pathetic, really. He was afraid of failure, of being alone, and spiders. He, the probable future Lord Gryffindor, was afraid of the stupidest things. It was terribly ironic, and Ron hated everything about it. He sighed, attempted to shake off his embarrassment, and passed his parchment along to Harry.

He read through Hermione’s parchment -- apparently she was afraid of being tied up, losing her family, and failure. Ron offered a few suggestions, then moved onto Harry, who feared disappointment, tight enclosed spaces, and small yappy dogs. Ron finished writing his notes just as Professor Scrimgeour called time.

“Alright. By this point in time everyone should have a decent idea of what to expect when you face the boggart. I will be present during your boggart encounter, as will your squad members. If you need help, do not hesitate to ask. Is everyone clear on that?”

“Yes, professor.”

“Excellent. First up, we have Parkinson, Greengrass, and Davis. Then Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle; then Bulstrode, Moon, Nott, and Zabini; and lastly Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Group one, come with me.”

Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey followed Professor Scrimgeour out of the classroom and into the storage room. The girls all looked nervous, and Ron couldn’t blame them. The second the storage room door shut, the classroom burst into whispers, most speculating on how the three gossips would handle the boggart. Ron tuned it out.

“We need a plan of attack,” Ron said.

“Don’t we already have a plan?” Harry asked.

“I mean besides from the brainstorming,” Ron clarified. “We should decide our order, and how we’re going to stand, and such.”

“Oh. So, what are you thinking?”

“I was thinking -- oi, Hermione, stop gossiping and pay attention!”

Hermione turned her attention away from her friends. “What?”  
“We’re planning our plan of attack.”

“Oh. Okay. What is it?”

“I was thinking I’d go first,” Ron began, holding up a hand to stall Hermione’s objections. “I’m pretty certain I know what the boggart’s going to turn into. I was thinking Hermione could go next, then Harry.”

“Why me last?” Harry complained.

“Because you have a natural talent for DADA.”

“Alright, that’s a good enough reason.”

“We should stand in a triangle, too. The point person will be the one facing the boggart, and they can rotate clockwise with the two people flanking.”

“Didn’t Professor Scrimgeour say to just make a line?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, but I think a triangle will work better, especially if the boggart gets nasty on us and we need to distrate it quickly.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “That makes sense. Yeah. Okay. That does sound like it’d work better.”

“So we’re good on the plan?”

“I think so,” Harry said. “It’s pretty simple.”

“Good. We got this.”

They sat in nervous silence for a couple minutes before Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey reappeared, all looking shaken. Professor Scrimgeour exited the storage room.

“Group two, your turn.”

Ron settled himself into his chair to wait, foot beating a rapid tattoo on the floor. Eventually, Vince, Greg, and Draco emerged. Vince and Greg looked fine, but Draco looked like he was going to be seriously ill. Millie, Lily, Theo, and Blaise filed in. Ron took a deep breath. They were next, and all too soon, it was their turn.

“Group four!” Professor Scrimgeour called.

Ron exchanged a look with Harry and Hermione, then entered the storage room. Ron couldn’t help but feel that the clank of the door behind them was ominous. They quickly assembled into their triangle formation in front of the boggart’s filing cabinet, wands drawn and ready. Professor Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow at their approach, but didn’t comment.

“We’re ready, Professor.”

“On the count of three, I will release the boggart,” Professor Scrimgeour said. “One… two… three… _Laxo!_ ”

The filing cabinet door flung itself open, and suddenly Ron face face to face with his mother. She frowned at him, features twisting malevolently. “You’re a disgrace to this family, to the name of Weasley. Your father would have --”

Ron’s stomach plummeted, and he forced himself to block her out. “ _Riddikulus!_ ” Boggart-Mum’s face contorted, and her clothes shifted until she was stuffed into one of Ginny’s sundresses, tripping over the hem as she tried to dance a jig.

Hermione rotated forward, and Ron stepped back, heart racing. Boggart-Mum stared at Hermione for half a heartbeat, then shifted. Much to Ron’s surprise, it wasn’t one of the fears Hermione had listed, but rather a woman in a deep cowled cloak that radiated malevolence.

Hermione froze.

“Come to Deirdre,” the woman crooned, brandishing a bone dagger dripping with blood. “Come to me, child of --”

“ _Riddikulus!_ ” Hermione snapped fiercely.

The dagger fell, impaling the woman’s own foot as she burst into flames. Ron grimaced as Hermione snickered. The scene was far too macabre for his liking. Also, where in the name of Merlin had Hermione seen a ritual dagger?

Harry rotated forward, and the boggart shifted once more, this time turning into a tall figure with a dark cloak.

“Pathetic,” the figure said, its high cold voice sending shivers down Ron’s spine. “And to think, your parents sacrificed their lives so you could live.” It pushed back its hood, revealing bone-white skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones and blood red eyes. “How utterly worthless.” He laughed, high and cold.

Ron felt sick to his stomach. He knew exactly who this was.

The Dark Lord advanced forward, robes whispering like serpents. “They should have let you die so they could live.”

At this, Harry, whose eyes had been wide with fear, hardened in anger. “My parents didn’t die in vain!” he shouted. “And you’re just a dumb boggart. _Riddikulus!_ ”

The Dark Lord tried to step forward, then tripped on its robes, falling forward in an ungainly bundle. Harry burst into laughter, then Ron and Hermione joined in. A sharp pop sound, accompanied by the scent of sulphur, and the boggart vanished, filing cabinet door slamming shut.

Harry turned towards their professor. “So, how’d we do?”

Ron looked over. Professor Scrimgeour was as pale as chalk and leaning heavily against a storage box.

“That was the Dark Lord,” Professor Scrimgeour said needlessly.

“I’d assume so. His laughter is the same as in my dreams.”

Ron stared. What in the name of Merlin?

“In your dreams,” Professor Scrimgeour repeated blankly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Nightmares,” he corrected. “Of when my parents...you

know.”

“Ah.”

Silence hung heavily in the air as Professor Scrimgeour visibly tried to pull himself

together. “Top marks. Tell the class you all are free to leave.”

They skittered out of the boggart room, eager to get away from the filing cabinet and the awkwardness of their professor. Hermione passed the message onto the rest of the class, and they quickly left, leaving Harry, Hermione, and Ron alone in the classroom. Ron faced his friends, studying them critically. Harry’s fear, he could understand, but Hermione was a whole ‘nother deal.

“What the bloody hell was that about, Hermione?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Ron cut her off. “Not here. Both of you _will_ meet me in the secret alcove behind the portrait of Damien Slytherin on the second floor after Care of Magical Creatures. The password is ‘I greet the dragon.’”

“But --”

“This is important,” Ron said firmly. “And _not_ something we can discuss in public. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to lunch.”

Ron stalked off, head spinning and feeling deeply disturbed. The rest of the day was a blur, including Double Potions, which Ron somehow managed to get through without blowing anything up, and Care of Magical Creatures, which involved shoving lettuce leaves down flobberworms’ throats. Before he knew it, the three of them were clustered behind Damien Slytherin's portrait.

Hermione looked bothered. “What was it you needed to talk about?”

Ron grimaced. This wasn’t going to be a fun conversation, and there was no use in beating around the bush.

“What was your boggart?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not really any of your business, Ron.”

“Maybe. But that ritual dagger was.”

“The what?”

“Don’t play stupid. I know what I saw. That was a ritual dagger...and if I’m not mistaken, it’s one made from human bone.”

Harry gasped. “Ewww!”

Hermione looked away.

“Hermione!”

She didn’t reply.

“Hermione, where in the name of Merlin did you see a ritual dagger?”

Silence hung in the air, and Ron was about to object when Hermione responded.

“Ireland.”

“Northern Ireland?”

“No. _Ireland._ ”

Ron swallowed. This changed things significantly. “When?”

“Years ago.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No. I’ve been trying to figure it out since I got here, but I just haven’t had any leads.”

“Can you tell us about it?”

Hermione looked hesitant. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“I promise.”

“I promise, too.”

Hermione bit her lip, then slowly began to recount the disgusting tale. When Hermione got to the part where the witch licked her blood off the dagger, Ron wanted to throw up. It was such a perversion of all that was sacred. Hermione finished her tale, and even Harry looked squeamish.

Ron frowned. “What gods did you say she invoked?”

“The Morrigan...and the Dagda.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Well, it could have been almost anything.”

“Great,” Hermione said sarcastically.

“There’s one thing I know for certain, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“That wasn’t how the ritual should have gone. Everything about it sounded wrong.”

“And where does that get us?”

“You know how the Irish have covens?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s only one coven I can think of that would try something that twisted.”

“And who’s that?”

“The Morholt Coven.”

* * *

 

_Later that day..._

 

 

Ron sighed as he walked across the Entrance Hall towards the dungeon stairs. It’d been a long, tiring day, and all he wanted was to curl up in his dorm room and go to sleep.

“Ronald!”

Ron groaned. There were two groups of people who called him Ronald: Ministry officials, and Percy.

“What do you want, Percy?”

“I need to talk with you.”

“You seem to be doing that.”

“Shut it, Ron, this is serious. C’mon.”

Feeling somewhat confused, Ron followed Percy into an empty classroom.

“What is it?”

Percy cast several privacy charms before he answered. “It’s about Fred and George.”

“What’d they do this time?”

Percy pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “It’s not so much what they’re doing as what they aren’t… Ron, you know neither of them is likely to accept the Gryffindor lordship, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you know you’re next in line?”

“Yes,” Ron said, wondering where the conversation was leading to.

Percy looked at him imperiously. “You will accept the lordship.”

“Of course!”

“Oh.” Percy deflated slightly. “I was worried I was going to have to give you a talk on family, and duty, and such.”

Ron gave his brother a measured look. “I know my place.”

“I suppose being in Slytherin would teach you that.”

“What do you mean?”

Percy vaguely waved a hand. “You know. Politics, posturing, all that rot.”

“Eh, a bit, I suppose. It’s mostly a bunch of people who think they know how to politic

bungling it up, and those who actually know how to manipulate working things behind the scene with no one noticing.”

Percy frowned. “They haven’t been mean to you, have they?”

Ron paused to collect his thoughts before answering. “I mean, there’s been some comments, but nothing too bad about me. Although recently…”

“Recently what?”

“I dunno. There’s been some… tension recently,” Ron admitted.

“Oh?”

“I’m not sure I should say, really, but there’s a group of second years who’ve been giving some of the non-purebloods trouble.”

“That’s not right.”

“No, it’s not. There’s nothing I can do about it, though.”

“What do you mean?” Percy asked, anger seeping into his voice. “What sort of trouble are they giving you?”

“I just can’t. It’s… complicated,” Ron said awkwardly. “It’s just name-calling, anyway. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

Percy sighed. “I guess I’ll have to accept that. Let me know if it gets any worse, though. As a prefect, I _can_ help.”

“Alright.”

“Ron...I know I maybe haven’t been around as much I should have, but I really do want to change that. We’re alike, you and I. I want to be there for you.”

Ron blushed. “Thanks. Er. Thanks, Percy.”

“It’s my duty.”


	7. Family Secrets

# 

_ Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 October 1993 _

 

Harry stretched at his desk, grateful for the half-day granted by Samhain. He was nearly done with his homework, and would have the entire weekend to laze around and do absolutely nothing. 

“Oi, Ron, what did you put for detriments of gillyweed?” 

“Uh, I can check, one moment…” Ron rummaged around. “Oh, I wrote about it only lasting for an hour.” 

“Hmm...I said that was a positive, because if it only lasts an hour, then you won’t be stuck with gills for a long time.” 

“Yeah, but if it only lasts an hour, and you want to be underwater for more than an hour, then you have to make sure you bring more or you could drown.” 

“That’s a good point. Do you think Professor Sprout would mind if I used the time limit as a benefit and a detriment?”

“I think you should be fine as long as you explain yourself well.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence broken only by the scratching of quills against parchment as Harry finished his Herbology essay and Ron crunched Arithmancy equations. Finally, Harry sat back and grinned. 

“Done with homework!”

“Did you do the Runes translation?” Ron asked skeptically.

Harry grinned. “Yeah, I have a free period after Runes so I did it then.” 

“Ugh, you lucky prat, I have Arithmancy then.”

Harry snickered. “Your fault.”

“Shut it. Oh, hey Theo.” 

“Hi. Wow, your room is a lot cleaner than ours.” 

“Well, we don’t have to live with Lord Sock Scatterer,” Harry said. “Did Operation No-Socks succeed?” 

Theo sighed. “No.” 

“Hmm. Maybe we should try Operation Star Sock again.” 

“Maybe,” Theo said pensively. “Er,  _ anyway _ , I was wondering if the two of you wanted to join in on our Samhain ceremony.” 

“Who’s going to be there?” Ron asked. 

“Me, my sisters, the Carrow twins, Urquhart, Rosier, and Travers. And Malfoy.” 

“What does the Samhain ceremony entail, exactly?” Harry asked curiously. 

Theo stared for a second. “I keep forgetting that you don’t know this stuff. You know how Samhain is one of the High Holidays, right?”

Harry nodded. 

“So, Samhain is the time of year when the Veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. On this day, we honor our relatives who have passed beyond the Veil by building an altar and holding a special ceremony.” 

“Do I need to bring anything specific?”

“Not really. We have everything we need for the ceremony itself. If you have photos of your relatives who’ve passed, you can bring those and add to the altar.” 

“Okay. I’ll come. When are you doing this?”

“After the feast. Ron, are you in?” 

“Yeah.” 

Theo nodded once. “Great. I’ll see the two of you later, then. We’ll meet in the common room.” 

The rest of the day passed as usual, and the Samhain feast was as delicious as it’d ever been. Before Harry knew it, the feast was over, and it was time to meet Theo and the others in the common room. 

“Everyone here?” Urquhart asked, standing on his toes to count. “Alright, it looks like it. We’ve got a ritual room cleared in the South-East tower. Follow me, please.” 

They followed the lanky boy up and out of the dungeons, through the Entrance Hall, and up the Grand Staircase. Urquhart led them through several unfamiliar corridors, and up numerous flights of stairs until they reached the top of the South-East tower. The room was bare, save an altar laden with votive candles, and there was a small hole in the ceiling that opened up to the heavens. 

“So, for anyone celebrating Samhain for the first time, we start with a prayer to the gods, then we light candles for our family members who’ve passed beyond the Veil while placing photos of them on the altar and saying their names. Once everyone has lit their candles and placed their photos, we sit quietly in remembrance. Does anyone have questions?” 

Urquhart paused for a moment, looking at the group. “No? Form a semi-circle around the altar.” 

Aria Nott, Theo’s older sister, stepped forward. “Tiw, creator of us all, I call on thee. Hear our prayer on this Samhain night, and allow passage of our sweet words to our ancestors’ ears so they know they are loved and remembered.”  

Aria re-joined the semi-circle, and they began to chant. 

_ “This is the night when the gateway between our world and the spirit world is thinnest. Tonight is a night to call out those who came before.  _

_ Tonight I honor my ancestors. _

_ Spirits of my fathers and mothers, I call to you, and welcome you to join me for this night. _

_ You watch over me always, protecting and guiding me, and tonight I thank you. _

_ Your blood runs in my veins, your spirit is in my heart, your memories are in my soul. _

_ With the gift of remembrance. I remember all of you. _

_ You are dead but never forgotten, and you live on within me, and within those who are yet  _ _ to come.” _

Goosebumps pricked on Harry’s arms and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Flora and Hestia Carrow approached the altar, photographs in hand. They placed them on the altar, and joined hands to light one of the votive candles. “With this candle, we remember those who passed. Our aunt, Megaera Carrow, and our paternal grandparents, Iapetus Carrow and Metis Carrow.” 

Urquhart followed them, then Rosier, then Travers. Draco stepped forward next, his pale hair glinting oddly in the flickering light of the candles. “With this candle, I remember those who passed. My aunt, Callia Malfoy, struck down in the prime of her youth. My paternal grandmother, Rosalind Malfoy, struck down by her foes. My paternal grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, struck down by illness. My maternal grandfather, Cygnus Black, struck down by the passage of time.”

Theo and his younger sister Diana approached the altar. “With this candle, we remember those who passed. Our mother, Rhea Nott, and our sister who never lived, Helena Nott.” 

Aria Nott followed them. “With this candle, I remember those who passed. My mother, Anastasiya Nott, and my sister who never lived, Helena Nott.” 

Surprise jolted in Harry’s stomach. Aria was Theo’s  _ half _ sister? 

Ron was next, and Harry watched as he placed a picture of over a dozen smiling and waving red-heads onto the altar. Harry’s heart sunk as Ron began to recite the prayer. Everyone -- everyone in Ron’s photos was dead. 

“With this candle, I remember those who passed. My paternal grandparents, Thomas and Margaret Weasley. My paternal aunts and uncles, Esther and Lysander Weasley; Celeste and Robert Weasley; Elise and Walter Weasley; and Elizabeth Weasley. My paternal cousins, Lyonel, Ophelia, and Jocelyn; Isabella and Jacob; and Joseph. My maternal grandparents, Florence and William Prewett. My maternal aunts and uncles, Marion and Gideon Prewett, and Melanie and Fabian Prewett. My maternal cousins, Helen and Clementine; Michael and Richard. Lastly, I remember my father,” Ron said, tears streaming freely down his face, “Arthur Weasley. May his blood ever run in my veins, and his spirit ever live in my heart.” Ron returned to the half-circle, making no effort to wipe away the tears. 

Harry finally stepped forward, and placed a picture of his parents on the altar. “With this candle, I remember my parents, James and Lily Potter.” 

Harry lit the last candle on the altar, and rejoined the circle. Aria Nott stepped forward once more. 

“Ancestors, hear our prayers, and speak to us if that is your will.” She stepped back, and they all sat down, closing their eyes. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying for a word. He only heard the wind, whispering in the trees, and smelled the faint scent of freshly baked pastries. After an indeterminate amount of silence, they stood, and exited the tower. The feeling of solemn silence lingered until they reached the Slytherin common room. 

“Theo…” Harry began. “I never knew you and Aria were half-siblings.” 

The brown-haired boy nodded heavily. “Yeah. Both our mums died in childbirth. They say it was a coincidence, but I don’t think so. Aria’s mum died with her younger sister, Helena, who was stillborn, and mine died giving birth to Diana.” 

“Your mum was named Rhea?” 

“Yeah. Rhea, born Malfoy, the last of the Black Heights Malfoys. Makes me Draco’s third cousin, once removed.” 

“What about Aria’s mum?”

“Her name was Anastasiya. Anastasiya Dolohova.”

* * *

 

_ 12 Grimmauld Place _

_ London, England _

_ 1 November 1993 _

 

He was falling. Falling down, down, down. He was staring, looking at everything and nothing at all. He was floating, up, up, up, over his fears, worries, and Azkaban. 

_ Azkaban _ . 

The word rang through his head like a thousand bells, and Sirius screamed. It was the devil’s prison, a place that broke the minds of men. The walls were closing in on him, the dementors circling ever closers, like a niffler homing in on gold. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think…

Sirius gasped, desperately trying to not lose, to slip, to fall, down, down, down. He couldn’t be lost, gone, forgotten. He was wasting away, breath catching, mind slipping. It was over. Going, going, going, gone, gone -- 

Something twisted in his mind, and suddenly the oppressive feeling was gone. Sirius bent double, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He’d had a relapse, again. Sirius wiped his forehead, and dung his hands deep into his robes pockets so he’d have something concrete to hold onto. Legs shaking, Sirius made his way across the room to an armchair, and sank down into it. He couldn’t afford to lose it again. He’d be stuck in Saint Mungo’s again for sure, away from his own place, and under the thumb of Lucius Malfoy. 

Merlin, Sirius hated the man. Malfoy had saved him, sure, but Sirius had hated every second of the pompous prick’s presence. Every condescending sneer, every twirl of his custom-made robes, made Sirius feel increasingly inclined to sock the other wizard in the face. The worst part about it was he couldn’t. He had to smile, to pretend to be grateful and oblivious to the manipulations going on around him. Lord Gaunt, whoever the hell he really was, was really a piece of work. Sirius couldn’t even keep track of the number of plots Lord Gaunt was involved with, and that was only the handful he knew about. It was terribly unfair, but luckily for Sirius, it wouldn’t be that way for long. Once he could go a week without having a panic attack, he would go to Saint Mungo’s for a psychiatric evaluation, and when he passed that, he would be able to assume the mantle of Lord Black. 

Sirius grimaced. Lord Black. Lord Sirius Orion Black, of the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black. The title tasted like ashes in his mouth, but the knowledge that he’d outrank Lucius made him grin. Anything that put the blond dandy in his place made Sirius inexplicably happy. Although…

Sirius’ happy grin slid off his face. Lucius clearly was expecting him to align himself with Traditionalist politics, which was something Sirius wasn’t sure he believed in. Sirius had been a Progressive before Azkaban, staunchly supporting Albus Dumbledore and his new ideals. Now, however, Sirius didn’t know how to feel. Dumbledore clearly had pulled strings that led to Sirius’ own incarceration, and the man never apologized for his heinous actions.

Sirius’ thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. An apology? A mere  _ apology _ for thirteen years in prison? Dumbledore would have to beg -- no,  _ grovel _ if he had any chances of deserving Sirius’ forgiveness. 

Sirius had no plans to even acknowledge the existence of the older wizard any time soon, and for that reason, supporting the Progressives was out. 

Sirius sighed. If he wanted to do the thing properly, he’d align himself with the Neutral-Traditionalists, which would place him directly between Lucius’ bloc and Dumbledore’s bloc. He’d send an owl to August Moon to arrange a meeting to discuss the various Neutral-Traditionalist policies. Lucius would get his knickers in a twist over it, and it’d all end fabulously. 

Sirius thought for a moment longer, and a grin made its way back onto his face. This wasn’t the happy grin from before, however, but instead one that contained a certain savagery and a promise of revenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Credit goes to the internet for providing me with the Samhain ceremony details.


	8. The Rat's Story

# 

_ Gaunt House _

_ Cornwall, England _

_ 10 November 1993 _

 

Lord Gaunt stared at Peter blankly, his neutral expression hiding the undercurrent of anger that was so prevalent in their conversations. “You are dismissed,” he sneered. 

Peter bowed hurriedly, and scrambled out of the room as quick as he could, heart beating rapidly  in his chest. He didn’t like the situation, not one bit. He’d been happy, ever so happy, living his life as Percy Weasley’s pet rat, then the Dark Lord had made a re-appearance and bungled up Peter’s plans once again. Peter hated it. Hated it all. It was so incredibly unfair. He was placed in a position of servile servitude, having to run, jump, bow, and scrape all for the Dark Lord’s wishes, and no one appreciated all the work he put in. It was manipulation piled on manipulation, starting from the moment Peter decided to volunteer information on the Potters.  

Peter hurried into the small bedroom Lord Gaunt had provided him with and shut the door, casting multiple warning spells to alert him if anyone tried to enter. Assured that he’d have at least several seconds of warning before someone barged in, Peter sat down on his bed and allowed himself to relax, mind drifting back in time.

 

_ Thirteen years ago... _

 

Peter squinted in the rain, cold water seeping into his shoes despite the Impervius charm. It was late, and the weather was foul enough that even the hags had the sense to stay inside. Peter hunkered deeper down into his cloak, and kept walking. Eventually, he stopped in front of worn storefront with a faded sign. The paint was peeling, and the image was nearly impossible to see in the dim light. If Peter had taken the time to examine it, he would have seen a headless unicorn. Ignoring the sign, Peter entered Knockturn Alley’s seediest dive bar without a second thought. Peter had become a regular there after graduating from Hogwarts. It was funny, really. One half of the Marauders -- James and Sirius -- had straight for the Auror Academy, while the other half -- Peter and Remus -- had found themselves cast to the wayside. Remus had an excuse, at least, given that he was a werewolf, but Peter just hadn’t been able to find a solid job. He’d had several temporary jobs, working as a shop assistant, and part-time security, but nothing great. 

He couldn’t help resenting James and Sirius. He’d always been jealous of their easy camaraderie back at Hogwarts, and now it seemed they simply were too cool for boring old Peter Pettigrew.

He signaled to the barman. “Firewhisky on the rocks.” 

The other man nodded, and poured the vibrant liquid into a questionably clean glass. Peter downed half of it in a swallow. 

“Rough day, eh?” the barkeep asked. 

Peter shrugged. It’d been a long day, full of fruitless job searching. It wasn’t even as if

he’d done terribly in Hogwarts -- he’d gotten a solid handful of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Charms. Granted, he’d only scraped by with Acceptables, but it really wasn’t his fault that he was rubbish at the written parts of the exams. He’d gotten nearly perfect scores on his practicals, not that any potential employer cared. 

Peter downed the rest of his drink, and motioned for the barkeep to refill it. Peter nodded his thanks, and slid a Galleon across the bar. He was so intent on finding a dark corner to nurse his second drink before heading back to his flat that he didn’t notice the way another man’s eyes followed him. 

Several days later found Peter at the bar again, burying another unsuccessful job interview in the bottom of cheap Odgen’s. The whiskey was terrible quality, and Peter winced with every sip, although, after the third glass, it tasted like the nectar of gods. He was at the bottom of his fourth glass, and contemplating a fifth when a man sidled up next to him at the bar. At least, Peter assumed the cloaked figure was a man. It was rather difficult to tell. 

“Whiskey, neat,” the figure rasped. “And I’ll pay for the good man here to have another drink.” 

The barkeep poured amber liquid into two glasses and passed in over. 

“Thanks,” Peter managed. 

The figure nodded. “I hear you’re short on work, lad.” 

Peter frowned into his drink. It was odd that a stranger was asking him about employment, but the whiskey was telling him to ignore his concerns. “I am,” he said, being careful not to slur. 

The figure nodded again. “I can help you with that. My boss requires a man with your skillset.” 

“Really?”

“Really. If you are interested, I can send you the details.” 

Peter was interested. Very interested. So interested, in fact, that he didn’t even think to wonder why stranger would know so much about him.

Several weeks later, Peter had easily settled into his new job. The work was boring, but the pay was good enough for Peter to keep his flat and send enough Galleons to his mum to pay for her medication. He was comfortable with his lot in life, and perhaps dangerously so, although he hadn’t realized that yet. Peter was loathe to admit it, but he was a bit of a lightweight when it came to drinking. Late one night, after a couple of rounds at the nameless bar, Peter made the mistake of bragging about his close friendship with James Potter -- not that he remembered saying anything due to the copious amounts of Firewhiskey he ingested. Unfortunately for him, Jasper Jugson, a low ranking Death Eater and one of Peter’s coworkers, recalled each and every word that fell from Peter’s loosened lips. 

Peter could remember, with a certain numbness, the day he was summoned before the Dark Lord many months later. Mycroft Mulciber, who’d since died, had held a wand to Peter’s mother’s throat and demanded that Peter give information on the Potters. Peter hadn’t known anything at the time -- James had practically dropped of the face of the earth, and the two hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while. Remus had vanished as well, off with the werewolf packs in the isolated Scottish moors. James and Remus hadn’t been at Order meetings either, which suggested something was up. Sirius had been present, although he’d been too busy flirting with Marlene McKinnon to pay much attention to Peter. 

Peter could still hear the screams of his mother when the Dark Lord cast the Cruciatus, and her pleas for mercy. He could still see her face, contorted in agony. Peter had promised to do anything to set her free, and when Sirius cornered him in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley one night and made him promise to be the Potters’ Secret Keeper, Peter couldn’t accept quickly enough. He’d resented the way James and Sirius dismissed him after they’d gotten into the Auror Academy, and he’d wanted glory and recognition for himself, and freedom for his mother.

He’d taken the news directly to the Dark Lord, and he’d received a tattoo and the husk of the woman who’d been his mother in payment. 

Peter rolled his head back.  _ And here I am now,  _ he mused.  _ Desperate to please the Dark Lord, lest he take my life as well. _

 

* * *

 

 

_ Personal Office Space of Thomas Gaunt _

_ Gaunt House, Cornwall, England _

_ 10 November 1993 _

 

Thomas perused the notes on his desk. The construction of the primary schools was progressing well, and would be ready to go into action in the next academic year. Bones and Moon were busy pushing their Neutral-Traditionalist agenda on the schools, and Thomas was busying working to put as many of his people in place at the schools as possible. Narcissa Malfoy sat on the Primary School Director board, which was incredibly useful. 

Thomas looked over the documents again, making several notes as he did. Year One students would have the option of attending half-day school, and would only study History of Magic, Herbology, Wizarding Culture, Maths, and Literature and Writing. Year Two would be a full-day programme, and follow the same curriculum. Year Three introduced Runic Scripts, and Pre-Potions, and Year Four added on Astronomy. Several members of the Primary School Director board were busy campaigning for foreign language classes as well. Narcissa was spearheading that particular effort, and insisting that students should have the opportunity to study French or Latin. 

Thomas made another note. Mermish and Gobbledegook would also be good languages for students to learn, and Hogwarts even had an elective class on both of the languages. Unfortunately, it was a seventh year elective, but the curriculum reforms would hopefully open up students’ schedules and allow them to take it earlier. In fact, there was no reason why promising students shouldn’t be able to take O.W.L.s in History of Magic and Herbology at the end of their second or third year. 

Sighing, Thomas pushed the curriculum papers to the side. If only wizarding primary schools had been available when he was young. It would have been absolutely life-changing, and he wouldn’t have been nearly as bored. He shrugged. Of course, if there had been wizarding primary schools, there would be a good chance that he wouldn’t have achieved the same levels of success, and that would have been truly unfortunate. 

A knock sounded on the door. 

“Enter,” Thomas intoned. 

Lucius walked in. 

“Ah, impeccable timing, Lucius. Would you care for tea?”

“Yes.”

“Milk and two sugars?”

The blond man slid into a chair. “That would be excellent, thank you.”

Thomas snapped his fingers for a house elf. “I just finished reviewing your wife’s notes,” he began. 

“I assume they were more than adequate?” 

“Indeed. The schools are anticipating needing approximately ten staff members per institution -- one to teach each year level, plus separate instructors for Runic Scripts, Pre-Potions, and Astronomy. They also want a part-time worker to supervise break times and the lunch hour.”

“Narcissa mentioned some of the halfblood parents want a sport instructor as well,” Lucius said. 

Thomas frowned. “Not Quidditch, I presume?” 

“No, they want a game somewhat like muggle football,” Lucius said. “Personally, I think it sounds like Quodpot -- the ridiculous game Americans are so fond of -- but significantly less dangerous. There are five players per team playing a position to Chasers. No Beaters, Bludgers, Seekers, Snitches, or Keepers. They play only with the Quaffle, and try to score in their opponent’s hoop.”

“If there’s no Seeker, how is the end of the game determined?”

“Half-hour games, with fifteen minute halves,” Lucius asked. “They play on training brooms as well, so they can only get five feet off the ground. If that’s coupled with cushioning charms over the playing area, it could be quite fun for children.” 

“Hmm. And you said the halfblood parents are in favor of this?”

“This, or some other organized sport.” 

“I suppose this new ‘game’ could be possible,” Thomas allowed. “Now, I’ve been giving some thought as to who among our people could make acceptable primary school teachers. The requirements are, as you know, an O.W.L. in History of Magic, and an N.E.W.T. in the other subjects, plus at least one R.A.T. Thorfinn Rowle and Margaret Montague are the two clear candidates. Terrence Gamp is not in our camp, per se, but House Gamp has been highly in favor of preserving wizarding traditions in the past.”

Lucius made a sound of agreement. “What about Georgina Fudge?”

Thomas smirked at the mention of Cornelius’ insipid eldest daughter. “I’m told she’s not the brightest wand in the shop.”

“All the easier to manipulate.”

“I just doubt she can pass the R.A.T.” 

Lucius smiled. “Her mother let it slip to Narcissa that Georgina was studying for a Muggle Studies R.A.T. You can imagine that Calpurnia wasn’t terribly pleased with that.”

Thomas chuckled. “I can. Now, at best, we have three potential candidates, only two of which are the decent sort. We’ll need to find more candidates, and quickly.”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps we can delegate that to Pettigrew?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucius. Pettigrew isn’t useful for anything.” 

Lucius raised an eyebrow.

“...other than Potions ingredients, I suppose.”

“Ah, you’re so droll.”

“I’m not wrong, either.” 

“Aye.” 

They sat in silence for several minutes, finishing the dregs of their tea. Finally, Lucius stood. 

“I’d best be on my way.” 

Thomas nodded. “It was good to see you, Lucius. We ought to meet later this week to discuss the new trade resolution.” 

“Naturally.” 

“I’ll owl you.”

“Excellent. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Lucius swept out of the room in a swirl of robes, and Thomas leaned back in his chair. All was good, and the pureblood agenda once again was on the rise.

 


	9. Pureblood Policies

# 

_ Slytherin Third Year Girls’ Suite _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 13 November 1993 _

 

Hermione stretched, back popping slightly. She’d been busy working on Charms homework all afternoon in the common area of the third year suite. She’d planned on working in the Slytherin common room, but annoying boys had been there. Hermione sighed. Most of the time, people didn’t seem to care much that she was muggleborn as long as she earned plenty of points for Slytherin and stayed out of trouble. Unfortunately, some of the younger years didn’t feel the same way. Atlas Carrow and his Blood Purist cronies were rather vocal about Hermione being the only muggleborn in Slytherin, and were constantly spewing degrading nonsense. Lily had advised Hermione to just ignore it, but it was getting harder. Honestly, what kind of idiot thought muggles still lived in the Dark Ages anyway?

Sighing again, Hermione rolled up her Charms essay and marked it as complete in her homework planner. She perused it for a moment. 

“Oi, Millie, do you still have the extra Transfiguration book?”

Millie poked her head out of their bedroom door. “No, I returned it to the library earlier

today. Sorry. I didn’t know you needed it.”

Hermione waved off the apology. “No worries. I’ll just go and get it myself -- I could use

a study break anyway.” 

Millie went back into their room, and Hermione hefted her bookbag onto her shoulder. With any luck, Atlas Carrow and his synophants would have left the common room. 

As it turned out, Hermione wasn’t lucky, and Atlas Carrow was busy holding court with several of his mates plus a couple of the first years. Quentin MacNair and Mordred Mulciber were situated on either side of Atlas while Lycoris Burke and Maxwell Parkinson listened intently. Apparently pug-like noses ran in the Parkinson family because Pansy’s cousin had one identical to hers. 

The entire group turned to sneer at Hermione as she walked by, and she did her best to ignore them. The library was a brisk seven minute walk away from the common room, and by the time she entered she’d all but put Atlas Carrow out of her mind. 

Hermione inhaled deeply, the smell of books filling her senses. Libraries had always been her happy place, even before Hogwarts, and the school library was no different. Hermione shook her head in an effort to collect her thoughts.  _ Transfiguration. Right.  _

Hermione perused the stacks in the Transfiguration section, quickly finding the book Millie had used as well as three others that would be good for extra references. She checked them out with Madam Pince, loaded them into her bookbag, and made her way back towards the Slytherin common room, thoughts of her Transfiguration essay darting through her mind. She’d just finished mentally composing her introductory paragraph when a voice interrupted her thoughts. 

“Hello, mudblood.”

Hermione started. Atlas Carrow was stalking towards her with his cronies flanking him. Hermione swallowed hard as a creeping feeling made its way down her throat and into her chest. She kept walking, and Carrow moved to block the hallway. 

“Not so fast, mudblood.”

Hermione’s fingers twitched. Her wand was in her robes pocket, and easily reachable. 

“Some of us,” Carrow began, “have started thinking you don’t know your place.” 

Quentin MacNair sneered. “We thought we could help you with that.”

“We need to make sure you  _ remember  _ it,” Mordred Mulciber added, eyes cold.

Hermione slowly moved her hand into her robes pocket. “I think I’m fine, thanks.” 

Carrow snickered. “Oh, but we disagree. And there’s five of us and one of you.” 

Hermione looked around, and stared as Lycoris Burke and Maxwell Parkinson made their way out of the shadows, moving to flank the three second years. Hermione’s heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest as her fingers closed on her wand. Hermione lifted her chin, determined not to show any sign of weakness. Hermione could only imagine what sort of ‘lesson’ they wanted to teach her, and they clearly wanted a fight. If she could goad them into action, they’d be more reckless…

Hermione raised an eyebrow, and pasted a superior expression on her face. “Bit rich of it, isn’t it, five on one. It almost seems like you’re scared.”

Carrow’s face turned a dull shade of red. “You’re going to regret that.”

Hermione sniffed. “I doubt it. What can a couple of first years and second years do?”

In a flash, Carrow, Muciber, and MacNair had their wands in their hands. Burke and Parkinson were a bit slower on the uptake, but soon they too were properly equipped. 

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ” Carrow snarled. 

In a flash, Hermione’s wand was in her hand and she slashed it in front of her. “ _ Protego! _ ” 

The Shield Charm formed in front of her, sending the Body-Bind ricocheting. The five boys gaped at her for a moment, and Hermione shot off two Leg-Locker charms. One of them missed, but the other hit Parkinson, and he toppled over. 

“You BITCH!” MacNair screamed. “ _ Locomotor Wibbly! _ ”

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ”

Hermione’s shield held. “ _ Expelliarmus! _ ” she shouted, flicking her wrist through the wand movement. A jet of red light burst out of her wand, throwing Burke back and relieving him of his wand. 

Carrow’s face darkened. “ _ Diffindo! _ ” 

The cutting curse whizzed by her, almost taking off a chunk of her hair. Hermione’s heart beat faster. Carrow was the biggest threat, the ringleader. She needed to get him out of the fight.

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ” Hermione shouted, aiming at Carrow. Carrow dodged, and the spell flew harmlessly by.

“ _ DIFFINDO!”  _

Hermione’s eyes widened as Carrow, MacNair, and Mulciber cast the cutting curse at the same time. 

“ _ Protego! _ ” 

Her shield charm pulsed into being just in time to block two of the curses, but not the third. Hermione gasped as her cheek split open. 

Carrow laughed, and Hermione gritted her teeth, lashing out with a series of Body-Bind hexes and Knockback jinxes. One of her jinxes connected with MacNair, and sent him flying backwards while Carrow and Mulciber continued to sending cutting curses her way. Hermione was vaguely aware that she’d been hit again, but the adrenaline from the duel kept the pain away. 

Carrow and Mulciber advanced forwards, and behind them MacNair was stumbling to his feet. Hermione managed to hit Mulciber with a Body-Bind hex, and he toppled over, stiff as a board. Carrow froze for a heartbeat, realizing that his friends were no longer with him.

“I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS!” he screamed.

Hermione readied her wand to cast, and --

“What is the meaning of this?” a cold voice asked. 

Hermione whirled around. Professor Snape stood behind her, eyeing the scene with a detached look of disgust. 

“Sir, they --”

“ _ DIFFINDO! _ ” shouted Carrow, voice full of malice. Hermione turned to counter the spell, but it was too late. It slammed into her side, and Hermione nearly fell over, leaning against the wall for support.

Professor Snape flicked his wand, and Carrow froze. Hermione swayed as a wave of dizziness passed through her, and her legs wobbled. 

“Miss Granger, are you alright?” Professor Snape asked.

Hermione looked down at herself. Her robes were torn in multiple places, and underneath her shirt was slowly turning red. Some distant part of her brain told her it was blood. 

“Huh,” she muttered intelligently, prodding it gently. Pain washed over her, and she

gasped as the dizzy feeling intensified. Dark spots danced before her eyes.

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione’s legs buckled underneath her as the dark spots threatened to take over her  vision. Her last conscious thought was that it suddenly had become very cold.

* * *

 

_ Severus Prince’s Personal Quarters _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 13 November 1993 _

 

“...Severus, are you even listening?” 

“Sorry. I was…”

“Somewhere else?”

“Something like that,” Severus muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Did you hear about what happened to Miss Granger?” 

Aurora nodded. “I heard the jist of it.”

Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The attack on Miss Granger brought back far too many memories of his own days at Hogwarts. “It just sickens me. Poppy had to put her on Blood-Replenishing potions because they cut her up so badly. I didn’t even notice at first, because the robes were so dark, but by the time I got her to the Hospital Wing, her blouse was more red than white.”

“Sweet Merlin…”

“There were five of them against her,” Severus bit out. “Five. Atlas Carrow has a week of suspension plus a month of detention when he gets back, and the other four have a detention and a note in their permanent record.”

“Do you think that was fair?”

“I think they got off easy.” 

They lapsed into silence, and slowly the tension began to drain away. Severus propped his feet up on his coffee table and leaned back in his chair. Aurora chuckled. 

“What?” he asked crossly. 

“I was just thinking of the students’ reaction if they ever saw you like this.”

“Like what?”

Aurora shrugged. “Relaxed. In your socks.”

“Nothing’s wrong with my socks.”

Aurora made a placating gesture. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong. Anyway, I was thinking…”

“I thought I smelled something burning,” Severus quipped. 

“Shut it. I was thinking that it’s been over a year since your grandfather blood-adopted you.” 

“So?”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “I’d get to the point if you stopped interrupting me.”

“Fine.”

Aurora gave him a look, and he made a go-on gesture. “This is going to sound odd, but just bear with me for a couple moments. You’re somewhat...in between. You’ve changed since last September, and especially since you’ve started participating in the Wizengamot. But, you’re still Severus Snape at heart.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Aurora sighed. “It’s...hard to put into words. I just feel like you could be...more. Severus Snape was a halfblood boy who grew up in a slum. Severus Prince is a pureblood in the laws of magic and a Wizengamot Lord. It’s time for you to become that man.”

“You have a lot of nerve to say that.”

Silence hung in the air as they stared at each other. 

“It’s true,” Aurora said softly. 

Severus’ head dropped forward. “I know. I just… don’t know if I can.” 

“You can, and you will.” 

“Aurora --” 

“You must.” 

Severus shook his head. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know.” 

Aurora smiled. “C’mon, let’s see what I can do to fix up your hair.”

Severus grumbled in token protest, but allowed her to lead him to the bathroom. Aurora

conjured a footstool. 

“Sit.”

Severus sat, and begrudgingly allowed Aurora to experimentally run her fingers through

his hair. 

“Do you cut your own hair?” she asked. 

“Yes.” There was no need to waste Galleons on a barber when a well-aimed cutting curse would do the same job for free. 

“Well, that’s the first thing that’s going to change,” Aurora said briskly. “The cut is uneven, and if you’re going to wear your hair down to your shoulders, you’ll need to tie it back. I can’t imagine it’s safe in any way to have long hair near a hot cauldron.”

“I pull my hair back when I’m in the lab. I’m not a dunderhead.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

“Hmmph. I’ll look like a poncy git if I wear it back normally.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll look...striking.” 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t work on me.”

“If you say so. Now, what are you using to wash your hair?” 

“Soap.” 

“Don’t be thick. What kind of soap?”

“The usual kind,” Severus said blandly.  

“Severus!” 

“What?” he asked innocently. 

“Stop being so difficult!” 

Severus snickered. “Just bar soap.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, then Aurora turned, and began to gently hit her face

against the wall. 

“What?”

“Severus, you don’t wash your hair with bar soap.”

“ _ I _ wash my hair with bar soap. It cleans fine.”

“ _ One _ does not wash their hair with bar soap. It leaves your hair waxy and dry.”

Huh. Well, that explained a lot about why his hair seldom cooperated with him. “So, what does  _ one _ use instead?”

“Shampoo, and you have to get the one that’s right for your hair type. Next weekend, I’m taking you to Diagon Alley to go shopping for it whether you like it or not.”

Severus sighed, feeling rather like a small child forced to go on an excursion. “Fine. Are

we done now?” 

Aurora paused before answering, and Severus had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “Don’t be ridiculous. We haven’t gone through your wardrobe yet.”

Severus groaned. This ‘makeover’ of Aurora’s was turning into a worse decision by the minute.

* * *

 

_ Hospital Wing _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 13 November 1993 _

 

The lights were dim when Hermione finally woke. Panic immediately flooded through her system -- Carrow,  MacNair, and Mulciber -- she had to make sure they didn’t get off scot-free. She tried to sit up, and was greeted by a wash of pain over her ribcage. She gasped, and laid back down, ribs pounding. Seconds later, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

“How are you feeling, Miss Granger?” she asked as she flicked her wand. 

“My ribs hurt.” 

“That’s to be expected,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly. “You had a series of lacerations across your ribs, and one on your cheek. You can expect them to be tender for the next couple of days -- some of the cuts were rather deep.” Madam Pomfrey pulled a jar out of her robes. “This is an Anti-Scarring Salve. You’ll need to apply it twice daily for the next week.” 

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, and winced when the motion made the pain in her ribs flare up. 

“There are several pain potions on your bedside table,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “You can take one every six hours. You’ll be staying in the Hospital Wing overnight for observation.”

Hermione started to protest, but Madam Pomfrey stopped her. 

“You lost a lot of blood today, and you don’t want to overexert yourself given the depth

of those cuts.”

Hermione sighed. “Can I see my friends, at least? To let them know I’m alright?” 

The strict matron looked like she was about to say no, so Hermione gave the woman her best puppy-dog eyes. “Please?” 

“I’ll allow it -- but only fifteen minutes, mind you, and I’m only permitting it because they’ve been sitting outside the Hospital Wing door for the past three hours!” 

A small part of Hermione’s brain panicked at the thought that she’d been unconscious for three hours, but the rest of her mind was busy rejoicing that she’d get to see her friends. Madam Pomfrey bustled off, and Hermione hastily downed a pain potion and laid back on her pillows. Moments later, the curtain around her bed rattled as Lily, Millie, Ron, and Harry burst into view. Lily and Millie looked incredibly concerned, and Harry and Ron looked tense.

“Oh, Hermione!” Lily exclaimed. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m really sore, but okay.”

“I can’t believe those arseholes did that to you!” Ron said hotly. “Next time I see Atlas Carrow and his lot I’m going to wring their scrawny little necks.” 

“Ron…”

“Don’t say it’s fine, because it’s obviously not! Who knows what would have happened if Professor Snape hadn’t found you?”

“Wait, how do you know about that?”

“Professor Snape called a house meeting,” Millie admitted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry before. Atlas Carrow got suspended, and everyone else has loads of detention.” 

“A lot of people in Slytherin are really mad about what Carrow did,” Harry added. “Even a lot of people who do support the Blood Purist policy points. Carrow made them all look bad, and it’s going to take a good amount of effort to regain the prestige they had before.” 

“Flint was really brassed off about it,” Ron said. “He’s a Traditionalist, technically, but his father supports a lot of Lord Gaunt’s policy points. Marcus went on a whole rant about it during Quidditch practice, and we had the roughest workout.”

Millie and Harry nodded in agreement. 

“What I’m saying though,” Ron continued, “is that most of the House is behind you in this. Almost everyone is against Carrow and his mates. People really support you.”

Hermione could feel a blush creeping up her neck. “Thanks,” she mumbled. 

The five of them chatted for several minutes longer, the topic moving away from Carrow and towards the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Ron and Millie were particularly excited, since this would be their first game playing for Slytherin. Ron would be playing Keeper, and Millie would be playing Beater alongside Cassius Warrington. Apparently Malfoy wasn’t a terrible Chaser when he kept his mouth shut and focused on the game, but those moments were few and far between. Marcus had to keep threatening to replace Malfoy with Vera Vane or Hector Runcorn, who were fourth years on the reserve team. Millie was hoping Vera would get to play, while Ron hoped Marcus would kick Malfoy off in favor of Hector. 

Harry, Ron, and Millie quickly got distracted debating the merits of the different Chasers, and Lily slid over towards Hermione. 

“Here, I brought you some of your books.”

Lily handed her a bag, and Hermione beamed. “Thanks!”

All too soon, Madam Pomfrey came over and made Millie, Lily, Harry, and Ron leave. Hermione hefted the bag onto her lap, and pulled out the books Lily brought her.  _ Rise of the Qing Dynasty: A Comprehensive History of Modern China _ looked fascinating, as did  _ Schriftsteller’s Guide to the Wizengamot. _ Hermione ultimately settled on reading  _ Relics of Caledonia _ , which started with the merging of the Kingdom of Caledonia into Britannia, and continued up to modern-day and detailed the influence of ancient Caledonian clan structure on present-day life and politics. 

_ Despite Clan MacMillan’s presence on the Wizengamot, Clan McGonagall is widely considered to be the most powerful clan in the Scottish Trifecta. Moray McGonagall, the current clan head, is the oldest of the Trifecta leaders. McGonagall has used his expertise and influence to increase Scottish nationalist and he has fought against leaders in England who wish to exert more control over the clans. McGonagall has campaigned several times for the Wizengamot to include more seats for both Scottish clans and Irish covens, citing the overbalance of Welsh and English power and the lack of Scottish and Irish representation. This is one of the few policies in which all nine clans agree on.  _

_ Moray McGonagall’s strong leadership has most definitely led Clan McGonagall to new heights. Moray’s son, Graeme, is next in line for clan head, and he certainly will have large shoes to fill.  _

_ For complete detail on Moray McGonagall’s legislative work, please see Appendix E.  _

Hermione flipped to Appendix E and was about to skim through the page when her bed curtain rustled again. Professor Snape and Aria Nott made their way over to her bedside. Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise. 

“Miss Granger. I see you are recovering well.” 

“I am. Thank you, sir, for checking in on me.”

Professor Snape made a sound of acknowledgement. He looked somewhat different, but Hermione couldn’t tell what had changed. 

“I wanted to inform you that Mr. Carrow has been suspended for a week due to his actions against you,” Professor Snape began. “The other students have received copious amounts of detention, and Mr. Carrow will also serve detention with me when he returns to Hogwarts. I made it very clear to the rest of the House that there is a zero-tolerance policy on that sort of behavior. If you experience any difficulties, tell me, Miss Nott, or any of the other prefects immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you again.”

Professor Snape nodded, and swept off in a swirl of robes while Aria Nott lingered. 

“Are you alright, Granger?”

“I’m fine.”

Aria looked at her skeptically. “Fine doesn’t land you in a hospital bed.”

Hermione looked at her hands. “There were five of them,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“What was I supposed to do against five?”

Aria shrugged. “Learn more spells. Get faster. Become more precise.”  

“I’m trying! I’m already casting fourth-year spells,” Hermione protested, frustration

welling up inside her. “Obviously it’s not good enough, and if someone more dangerous than a group of first and second years attacks me I’m dead!” 

“Granger --”

“I can’t even take Dueling until sixth year!” Hermione wailed. 

“Granger!”

“What?”

“Stop your hysterics and listen for a moment.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve taken Dueling for the past two years.”

Hermione stared, wide-eyed. “Can you help me? Please say you’ll help me.” 

Aria sighed. “I will. You better be ready work hard.”

“I will, I promise. I won’t let you down!” 

“Good. Rest easy, Granger.”

Aria left, leaving Hermione to relax as thoughts of revenge began to float through her mind.

* * *

 

_ Chamber of the House of Lords _

_ Ministry of Magic, London _

_ 19 November 1993 _

 

“The Eastern European Trade Agreement passes,” the Moderator announced. “We will now move into voting procedure on the Irish History resolution, which is sponsored by Lords Gamp, Urquhart, and Yaxley. I will need three to speak in favor of the resolution, and three to speak against it. First speaker in favor…”

Several lords raised their lit wands. 

“The Moderator recognizes Lord Yaxley for a time not to exceed one minute.”

Austin Yaxley made his way to the speaker’s podium. “My fellow lords and ladies,” he began. “It was over fifty years ago that our Irish brethren separated themselves from us. It is high time that we begin to make amends for wrongly forcing them out of Britannia. We must show them they are welcome here, and education our children on the follies we committed. We can only make progress by showing where we went wrong, and in hoping they reciprocate. The Irish History resolution will accomplish this by employing a two-pronged approach: by teaching our children the true history of what happened between us and the Irish, and by extending the proverbial olive branch to the Irish to facilitate talks between our government and theirs with the goal of reunification. Thank you.”

Lord Yaxley made his way back to his seat. 

“Thank you, Lord Yaxley. First speaker against...The Moderator recognizes Lord Abbott.”

“Thank you. Now, I would like to take a moment here to reflect on history,” Lord Abbott started. “Lord Yaxley seems to be laboring under the misconception that all of the history between Northern Ireland and Ireland will be resolved by passing a Wizengamot resolution. This is patently false. If you cast your minds back to History of Magic, you will remember that Ireland’s decision to leave Britannia was strictly their own. The then-southern Irish covens were the ones who starting fighting with us in 1922, not the other way around as Lord Yaxley seems to believe. 

“Given that our policy points haven’t changed much since 1922, it is unlikely that the Irish wish to rejoin us. This is especially true given the influence of the Morholt coven, who have drifted further than most of the Blood Purists on the political spectrum. If you examine the demands they made in 1922, you can see that any ‘hope’ of reconciliation is just that: a hope, and not the solid plan we would need.”

“Thank you, Lord Abbott. Second speaker in favor...The Moderator recognizes Lord Travers.”

Severus tuned out the remaining speakers. The argumentation was clear cut enough: the Irish History resolution simply was too fluffy -- it failed to take concrete action where concrete action was absolutely necessary. Furthermore, it didn’t account for the fact that the northern covens would be completely and utterly pissed if the southern covens rejoined Britannia. The entire resolution had naivety etched into every line, and Severus certainly wasn’t going to vote in favor of it. 

“We will now vote on the Irish History resolution,” the Moderator announced. “All those in favor?”

Approximately one-third of the House of Lords raised their lit wands. 

“All those opposed?”

The other two-thirds of the House of Lords raised their lit wands. 

“This resolution fails.”

Yaxley and his block looked disappointed. Severus quite frankly didn’t care.

“Debate is closed for today. It will reopen next session.”

The scraping of chairs filled the chamber as everyone stood and stretched. Severus was quite looking forward to returning to his quarters and enjoying a nice glass of cognac and the latest issue of  _ Potions Monthly _ when Lucius Malfoy strode over. 

“How did you find the session?” Lucius asked, smirking.

“Dull, as usual. I am eager to go home.”

“Ah. I was hoping I could persuade you to meet with Thomas and I. Or, rather, most of our social club.”

“Is that so?” Severus asked, mind racing.

“Indeed.”

“I suppose I must join you, then,” Severus said smoothly. 

Ten minutes later, he was ensconced in one of the many antique armchairs in Malfoy Manor’s green parlor. Thaddeus Nott, Cadmus Avery, Evan Rosier, Erik Rowle, Edwin Travers, and Thomas Gaunt were busy helping themselves to a selection of Lucius’ mead. When they all were seated again, Gaunt stood. 

“Welcome, my brethren, to the first of many meetings,” he began. Severus noted that those present had been a part of the inner circle in the previous war, save himself and Rowle. Given the absence of the three Lestranges, it didn’t take a genius to figure out they’d replaced them. 

“I am pleased to announce that our Lord is alive, and has been located,” Gaunt continued. A gasp went around the room. “He currently lacks the strength to meet with all of you properly, and I, along with several colleagues, am working to find a potion that will return our Lord to a fully corporal form.” 

Severus’ mind buzzed. This was a decidedly odd situation. He’d wrongly assumed for a heartbeat that Gaunt was the Dark Lord, given their similar appearance, but it seemed he was wrong yet again. Gaunt was a new fixture, and Severus didn’t trust him in the slightest. Furthermore, anyone with half a brain knew Severus was the best potion expert they had, and should be consulted for any sort of potions project.  

“Soon, it will be time for us to move our plan into the second phase,” Gaunt was saying. “My counterpart was recently activated in the United States, and will help to give us some needed leverage here in Britain. I’m hoping to insert more of our people in Hogwarts, either in the History of Magic position or the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. My counterpart goes by Dmitry Razalas.” 

Severus’ mind spun yet again. What sort of name was Dmitry Razalas, and what did Gaunt mean by his ‘counterpart’? Whatever it was, Severus had a bad feeling about it.


	10. Proper Protocols

_Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_19 November 1993_

 

Ron paced his dorm room and tried to resist the urge to pull out his hair. He wanted to strangle Malfoy -- no, punch Malfoy. The blond boy was completely and utterly infuriating, and Ron didn’t think he could take it any longer. They’d just finished their first Quidditch match of the season -- Slytherin absolutely steamrollered Hufflepuff -- and Malfoy was trying to take all the credit. The entire Slytherin common room had just be regaled by ‘100 Great Chaser Moves by Draco Malfoy’ which was quickly followed up by ‘100 Times Ronald Weasley Utterly Failed’. Ron knew all of it was lies, but it didn’t stop it from making him angry.

After last year’s chess showdown, Malfoy had been forced to lay off making fun of Ron or his family for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, that provision didn’t apply to their third year. Malfoy kept needling him, and Ron was quickly running out of patience. He wasn’t desperate or weak enough to go to Percy, but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the guise of nonchalance.

Ron slumped forward, chin in his hands. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair, and the worst part was that he could do nothing about it.

The curtains around Ron’s bed rustled.

“Ron, you there?”  
“Yeah.”

“You know no one agrees with all the shite Malfoy’s spewing, right?”

“Yeah.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Doesn’t mean I should have to listen to it,” Ron mumbled.

“Yeah...I just wanted to let you know no one believed Malfoy. Everyone knows he’s the worst one on the team.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Do you wanna come back to the common room?”

Ron sighed. “I’m going to stay here. I just need some time alone.”

“Okay.”

Harry walked off, and Ron flopped over onto his stomach as an empty feeling settled in his heart. He was going to have to deal with gits like Malfoy for the rest of his life, and nothing he could do could change it. The thought was depressing, and Ron buried his face in his pillow, wishing he could get away from it all, even if it was only for a moment. He couldn’t do that anymore than he could build a golden stairway into the heavens. Fortune didn’t favor poor boys like Ron.

A tear trickled down Ron’s cheek, and he brusquely wiped it away. He wouldn’t cry. His sadness meant a win for Malfoy, and Merlin be damned Ron wouldn’t let the viper win. Ron lifted his head off the pillow, then sat up, squaring his shoulders. He would have to grow stronger. He would have to grow tougher. There was no way he would let Malfoy, with his smarmy attitude and self-centered arrogance, make Ron feel inferior ever again.

Ron stood up, and stared down his reflection in the mirror before heading back down to the common room. He’d show Malfoy who the superior wizard was.

* * *

 

_Letters Sent Between 19 November and 20 November 1993_

* * *

 

_Dear Son,_

_I am quite pleased to hear that your studies are progressing nicely. I know you will challenge yourself academically and thereby continue your trajectory to success. How are your friends doing? I hope your roommates have been pleasant -- I know you were a mite concerned about the behavior of one of them._

_The time for mourning has since passed. I have decided to reach once again into the dating pool. I had been considering Lord Yaxley or Lord Avery, but I must say that Lord Black has a certain appeal to him. Your new stepfather must be perfect,_ sì?

_Keep your eyes open, and your heart wary._

_Love as always,_

_Mother_

 

 

 

_Dear Mother,_

_This is delightful news, and my heart rejoices for you. I could not help but note that you decided not to pursue Lord Shacklebolt or Lord Gaunt -- I believe this to be wise. Lord Shacklebolt is too far estranged from our plans to be of use, and Lord Gaunt shrouds himself in mystery. I wish you the best of luck in your wooing, and may Frig and Tiw watch over you._

_Theo is doing well, and our side of the room is actually quite clean. It’s probably not up to your standards, but it’s way better than Vince and Greg’s room, and we passed Professor Snape’s room inspection on the first try. Draco didn’t, though. He leaves his socks_ everywhere _and it’s a real pain in the arse to get him to clean up. I also find crumpled bits of his parchment on my desk all the time because he can’t be bothered to walk across the room to the rubbish bin. Do you have any good ideas to get him to clean up? Theo and Harry were working on a plan to fix Draco’s socks, but I don’t think it’s going to be successful._

_I agree with what you said about my new potential stepfather. Lord Black would be rather perfect, especially since he’s Harry’s godfather, and that would make Harry and I practically brothers._

_I eagerly await news of your courting._

_Your loving son,_

_Blaise_

 

 

_Maura --_

_I know of a quiet tea shop located off Diagon Alley. If it is convenient for you, I would like to meet you there on Wednesday at 3 in the afternoon._

_Regards,_

_Sirius_

 

 

_Dear Sirius,_

_That sounds lovely. I will see you on Wednesday at three._

_Yours,_

_Maura_

* * *

 

_Hogsmeade_

_Scotland, United Kingdom_

_20 November 1993_

 

Harry’s face split into a happy grin as his eyes tried to take in everything at once. He and Ron had already decided to go to Zonko’s first, then check out the Shrieking Shack before meeting up with Hermione, Millie, and Lily at Honeydukes and the Three Broomsticks. The girls had decided to stop by Dervish and Banges since Hermione wanted a new book, then Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop to get new quills and ink.

Harry and Ron happily romped around Zonko’s for at least an hour, and emerged several Galleons poorer and arms full of joke products, including several Hiccough Sweets that Ron wanted to experiment with. Harry looked at the bag thoughtfully.

“Ron?”

“What?”

“Do you reckon we could fit a Hiccough Sweet inside a chocolate truffle?”

Ron rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a sweet. “Er, maybe? Dunno how you’d get it inside, though. Why?”

Harry snickered. “You know, I bet we could just melt some chocolate over the Hiccough Sweet and no one would know the difference. Well, maybe Malfoy would, if we fed them to him. And by feed them to him, I mean leave them where he’d find them and eat them.”

Ron chuckled. “That’s an idea. Thing was, I was thinking of seeing if we could modify the Hiccough Sweets to do other things. I’m thinking Fred and George could help me with that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They like to experiment.”

Harry grinned. “Wicked.”

“I know. C’mon, let’s go check out the Shrieking Shack before we have to make our way back down to Honeydukes.”

The Shrieking Shack turned out to be a long walk and a big disappointment, but Harry and Ron quickly consoled themselves with the thought of all the sweets they could buy in Honeydukes.

The rich scent of chocolate enveloped Harry’s senses the moment he and Ron stepped through the shop door. The shop’s walls were lined with colorful jars of candies, and massive lumps of chocolate and fudge sat behind glass walls in the front counter.

“Ooh, look,” Harry said, grinning from ear to ear, “free samples!”  

Sure enough, there were a variety of samples, ranging from standard sweets like milk chocolate and caramels to strange sweets like cockroach clusters and fudge flies.

Ron made a face. “I think I’ll stay away from the cockroach clusters, thanks.”

Harry studied them carefully. “Yeah, I think I will, too. Let’s go over there. I want to get a

couple of chocolate frogs.”

“Still missing Merlin?”

“Yeah.”  
“Well, he’s an ultra-rare card. I don’t even have him yet.”

“Maybe I’ll get him this time.”

“Or maybe you’ll get Morgana again.”

“Ugh, I have _five_ of her.”

“I have _seven_.”

“Oomph, that’s rough.” Harry grabbed three chocolate frogs, and a small carton of Fizzing Whizbees. “Hey, look, there’s Hermione, Millie, and Lily.”

They made their way over to where Hermione was geeking out over Toothflossing Stringmints.

“I’ve got to get some of these for Mum and Dad,” Hermione was saying eagerly. “They’re so clever, Mum will absolutely love them. Oh, hello, Harry, Ron.”

“Hi,” Ron said awkwardly. “Have you guys seen the levitating sherbet balls yet?”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “Nooo.”

“Well, they’re over here, and Percy said that you’ll actually float off the ground when you eat them.”

The five of them trouped over to the sherbet ball display, and each of them purchased at least one. Harry bought three, because he wanted to have one in each flavor. After perusing the rest of the store -- why would anyone want Acid Pops or Blood Lollies? -- the group headed over to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer.

“So,” Lily began once they were all clutching mugs of foamy butterbeer, “what does everyone think of Hogsmeade?”

Hermione beamed. “It’s great! I got so many new books today!”

Millie and Lily looked at each other and groaned. “We know, Hermione.”

Hermione pouted. “Look, it’s not my fault that all of books looked interesting!”

“Gosh, you’re such a Ravenclaw.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, Ron, how was _your_ day?”

“Zonko’s was awesome!” Harry enthused. “Ron and I got so many great joke products.”

Millie snickered. “I’m guessing Malfoy is going to have a rough time of it?”

Harry pasted an innocent expression onto his face. “Why Millie, how could you ever say

such a terrible thing? It’s not like I’ve been planning on pranking Malfoy all year or anything.”

Ron snorted in laughter, and Harry sniffed in mock hurt.

“You wound me,” Harry said dramatically.

They all dissolved into laughter, and Harry grinned. It was good to have friends.

* * *

 

_Wizarding Studies Classroom_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_24 November 1993_

 

“Good afternoon, class,” Professor Rookwood began as he surveyed the room, mentally taking attendance. “Today we will delve further into the rich history of Old Magick in Great Britain, starting by what we know about Stonehenge so far. Who remembers from last class the purpose of Stonehenge? Miss Bones?”

“Stonehenge was used for ritual magic.”

“Correct, one point to Hufflepuff. Now, Stonehenge, or Ciorcal cloch Mór, as it is called

in the old tongue, is an ancient ritual circle…”

Professor Rookwood began explaining the significance of ritual magic to British wizards, and Ron tuned him out a bit.   Wizarding Studies, as far as Ron concerned, was kind of a waste of time. So far, all they’d done was talk more about British wizarding history that wasn’t covered in their History of Magic class. Hermione apparently loved the class, but she was also in the muggleborn section, and they were learning different things. Hermione had waxed eloquent about the wonders of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and the influence of religion on the implementation of the Statue of Secrecy and the following isolation of the Wizarding World from the muggle world.

She’d initially been quite angry that the purebloods and halfbloods had been separated out into different Wizarding Studies classes, then Ron pointed out that a lot of the information that would be new to muggleborns was stuff people raised in the Wizarding World were already familiar with. Hermione had acknowledged his point, and immediately questioned why Harry was in Ron’s class section instead of hers. Ron hadn’t had a good answer to that -- Harry was muggle-raised, so it would have made sense for him to go into the muggleborn class section. Unless…

Ron looked around the room. Out of the entire class, everyone was pureblood, with the exceptions of Roger Malone and Harry. Malone was from Gryffindor, and apparently had some sort of scheduling issue that put him in the class. Out of the rest of the class, only four of the purebloods weren’t related to families with seats on the House of Lords -- Mandy Brocklehurst, Megan Jones, Morag MacDougal, and Olivier Rivers. Although, for the case of MacDougal and Rivers, MacDougal’s father sat on the Trifecta, and Rivers was a cousin of the wealthy French Delacour family.

It was odd, really, that so many Wizengamot heirs had class in the same room, and Ron had a feeling it wasn’t a coincidence, especially given that the upper years had etiquette lessons as part of their Wizarding Studies class. There was definitely some manipulation going on, and Ron had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he learned if he were to investigate the matter.


	11. Yule Festivities

# 

_ Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and Lilian Moon’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 10 December 1993 _

 

Hermione wiped her brow as she headed back into her dorm room. Dueling lessons with Aria Nott were harder than ever, and now that they had solidly moved into fourth year level spells, Hermione was having a harder time keeping up. Aria was an amazing dueler, and a fierce taskmistress. The older Slytherin had finally deemed Hermione to be proficient with all the third year dueling spells, as well as with the Stunning Spell and the Shield Charm, which were both fourth year level. They’d started working on the Hex Deflection Charm, which was fiendishly difficult. Hermione could cast it easily, but she could seldom deflect Aria’s hexes to where she wanted them. 

Granted, Aria was a seventh year, and Hermione was a third year, but it really shouldn’t have been so difficult. Hermione sighed, and gathered up her shower supplies. She’d just have to be content with being a work-in-progress. 

Fifteen minutes and a warm shower later, Hermione was dressed, and settled into her desk to begin her Herbology homework when Millie and Lily trooped in and flopped on their beds. 

“Hermione, are you doing homework again?”

“...yes.”

Lily stared at her. “It’s Friday!”

“If I do my homework now, I won’t have to scramble to do it Sunday night,” Hermione pointed out. “Plus, we have end of term exams next week and I want to have extra time to study.”

“What, are you worried Draco is going to beat you in Potions?” Lily teased.

“No, but he is second in the class.” 

“Pshaw, you’re a million times better than he is,” Lily said. “Say, what are you doing

over Yule break?”

Hermione blinked at the non sequitur. “I’m staying at Hogwarts. My mum and dad are

going to be at a dental conference on the Continent.”

Lily nodded. “My family is throwing a Yule party. Any chance you’d want to go? Millie is going, too.” 

Hermione stared. “Of course I would! But how would I get to your house?”

“Well, you could stay with us for part of the winter holidays,” Lily said slyly, “as long as your parents say it’s okay.” 

“You could probably stay with me, as well,” Millie chimed in. “I can owl my parents tonight if you want to.” 

Hermione beamed. “That’d be awesome! Who else is going to the party?” 

“Let’s see, the Boneses,” Lily began, ticking them off on her fingers, “the Dagworths, the Fawleys, the Marchbanks, the Morans, the Selwyns, and the Urquharts. Oh, and the rest of Millie’s family, of course.” 

Realization dawned on Hermione. “Lily, this isn’t a political thing, is it?” 

Her friend blushed. “Technically, no.”

“But in actuality, yes?”

“Ehhh, kind of? It’s a lot of the families that Dad associates with at work, as well as the Patils. They don’t have a seat on the House of Lords, but Rajan Patil holds one of the seven appointed voting positions.” 

“Really? Which one?”

“Senior Undersecretary for the Underminister.” 

“Oh. That sounds...important.” 

Lily nodded sagely. “It is. Anyway, do you own dress robes?”

“No.” 

Lily beamed. “Great! That means we’ll get to take you shopping!”

Hermione groaned. “Really, Lily, it’s fine. I can get them on my own.”

“Uh huh. I mean, you probably could find dress robes, but not necessarily the right sort. Plus, if we go with my mum, she’ll probably take us out to the new  _ patisserie  _  in Diagon Alley.” 

Hermione frowned. Pastries were a pretty good bribery mechanism, but Lily playing stylist was always a big adventure. “I’m not sure about that --”

“C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

“Lily --”

“Pleeeeeeease,” Lily wheedled. 

“Millie, back me up here,” Hermione begged. 

The other girl shrugged. “Dress robes are confusing,” Millie said. “I usually get my mum to help me pick out mine.” 

Hermione groaned again. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“Argh!”

“Does that mean you’ll go shopping with me?” Lily asked brightly.

Hermione’s response was to slam her head repeatedly on her desk.

* * *

 

_ Diagon Alley _

_ London, England _

_ 18 December 1993 _

 

“Come along, girls,” Artemis Moon, steering Lily and Hermione into Twilfit and Tattings. 

Hermione had a chance to crane her neck at the artistic displays of clothing in the store windows before they entered the shop. She’d never been in Twilfit and Tattings before -- Madam Malkin’s had been where she acquired all her wizarding clothes -- and Lily insisted that Twilfit and Tattings was the place to go for dress robes if you had the money. 

The bag of Galleons in Hermione’s pocket chinked softly. Upon hearing that their daughter would be going to a fancy Yule party, Hermione’s parents had been more than happy to supply her with funds to buy an appropriate dress. Hermione had converted the pounds into Galleons upon arriving in Diagon Alley and was quite determined to pay for her own dress robes, despite Lily’s warning that her mother tended to spoil Lily’s friends. 

A bell tinkled deep within the shop, and Hermione gazed around at the robes on display in the entryway. Wizarding dress robes were reminiscent in some ways of the Victorian era. The men’s dress robes featured intricate vests, crisp shirts and trousers, and ornately tied ascots. Their outfits were completed with a set out outer robes, which had tailored lapels reminiscent of muggle tuxedos. 

If Hermione thought the wizards’ clothes were beautiful to look at, they were nothing compared to the witches’ styles. Multiple layers of rich fabrics constructed most the dress robes, and while there were some ruffles and fuller skirts, Hermione was relieved to see that none of the robes on display seemed to feature the hoop skirts and bustles that were so common in her mum’s telly dramas. 

“Ah, Lady Moon!” the shopkeeper's voice trilled, jolting Hermione of her thoughts. “How may I assist you today?” 

“Good afternoon, Alexandra. My daughter, Lily, and her friend Hermione are in need of dress robes for our formal Yule event.” 

The saleswitch beamed. “Excellent, do either of you young witches have any style preferences?” 

“I’d like something in blue, purple or silver,” Lily said immediately. “A generous skirt, too, but nothing overly full since I want to be able to move around easily.”

Alexandra nodded, jotting down notes on a piece of parchment. 

“And for you?” she asked, looking towards Hermione. 

“Er,” Hermione began articulately. “I’m not really sure…”

“Any color preferences?” 

“Not red,” Hermione said quickly, thinking of Gryffindors. “Er…” Hermione glanced over at Lily’s mum, hoping to get help. 

“Perhaps something in a deep color would suit Hermione,” Artemis mused. “Burgundy, navy blue, or forest green. Something with classic lines, perhaps an empire waist?” 

Alexandra gave Hermione a once over. “Hmm. I have some ideas, Miss --?” she looked over at Hermione expectantly.

“Granger,” Hermione supplied. 

“Miss Granger. If you take a look at the ready-made robes section, you can look for a style you like. When you see something you like, let my assistant know. Miss Moon, I’ll send you back to Lucille for fabric choices and pinning.” 

Lily was led into the back of the shop, and Hermione wandered off to the ready-made robes section. Each fabric seemed more beautiful than the last, although some of the robes were quite scandalous. After several minutes of browsing, Hermione had an arm full of robes she liked. She had just began to wonder where to go when the shop assistant bustled back over. 

“I see you’ve found several robes to your liking,” Alexandra commented. “Follow me to the back, and we’ll get you set up. I can take those robes for you.” The older witch levitated the pile of dress robes out of Hermione’s arms and led the way into the back of the shop. Lily was standing on a stool while another assistant pinning meters of silvery fabric shot through with purple. 

“Alright, Miss Granger,” Alexandra began, gesturing to the robes she’d arranged to hang in a row, “what about these do you like?” 

“Well, I like the neckline on that one,” Hermione said, pointing to the square neckline of the teal dress robes, “but not the color. I do like the color on this one, though…”

They spent ages going through the dress robes, with Lily’s mum interjecting several times. Eventually, she settled on the perfect set of dress robes. The bodice was made from deep navy fabric, and had a square neckline and tight fitted sleeves that went all the way down to Hermione’s wrists. The skirt flowed neatly down, and had a print that reminded Hermione of watercolor paints, with swirls of blue mixing together. The robe that went over the dress was also navy, but the fabric was shear, and the sleeves flared out around Hermione’s elbows to show the sleeves of her dress. Both Hermione and Lily’s dress robes needed to be finished, and would be owled to Lily’s home when they were done. Hermione had tried to pay for her own robes, but Artemis had insisted on paying for them. 

After eating an early dinner in an upscale Indian restaurant, they took the Floo to Moon Tower. Hermione landed with a slight bump in the foyer, and her jaw proceeded to drop to the floor. The room carried a certain perfect elegance to it, a clear sophistication that spoke of wealth and good taste. Grey stone walls stretched upwards into a cavernous ceiling, and Hermione’s eyes roved as she tried to take in every detail. She hardly noticed when Lily walked up next to her. 

“C’mon, I’ll show you to your room. Mum’s already had the house elves take your stuff up.” 

Hermione followed her friend mutely, too busy looking around to talk as they mounted a spiral staircase. After several flights, Lily turned off into a corridor. 

“This,” Lily said dramatically, pausing in front of a door, “is my room.” 

She flung the door open, and Hermione ogled. The stone walls of the tower were covered with rich tapestries, and a giant four poster bed dominated one corner of the room. A cozy window seat occupied one of the walls, and it looked like the perfect place to settle down with a good book. 

“Wow, you’re so lucky!” 

Lily grinned. “Thanks! I’ll show you your room.” 

Lily led Hermione down the hallway, and opened the door to the room next to hers. Hermione’s jaw dropped again. The room was practically the same as Lily’s, although the bed curtains were a deep shade of green instead of royal blue. 

“This is amazing!” Hermione said, already imaging all the reading she’d do in the window seat. “Thanks!” 

“Your trunk’s over there, if you want to unpack. I’ll be in my room -- just come over when you’re ready!”

Lily bounced off, and Hermione smiled widely. It was going to be the best Yule yet.

* * *

 

_ Moon Tower _

_ Wales, United Kingdom _

_ 24 December 1993 _

 

“Does my hair look alright?” Hermione asked anxiously, fussing with a stray curl as she peered into a mirror. 

“It’s looks great, stop worrying about it!” 

“And my makeup?” 

“You’re fine, Hermione. Stop stressing.”

“But --” 

“You look great!”

Hermione smoothed down her robes and studied herself in the mirror. She did look rather nice, she supposed. A house elf had come into to do hair and makeup for her and Lily, and for the first time in her life Hermione actually felt pretty. Her curls were glossy, and piled on top of her head in an elegant twist with several curls falls down to frame her face. Her makeup was simple, and somehow made her eyes look larger. 

“Are you ready to go down?” Lily asked. 

Hermione nodded, lectures on pureblood manners fresh in her mind. Lily’s mum had been certain to coach her on the niceties some of the more traditional purebloods observed, and Hermione hoped she would pass muster. 

In almost no time, they’d descended the spiral staircase and made their way over to the ballroom. Lily was on door greeter duty with her parents, while Hermione was allowed to mill around the ballroom as they waited for guests to arrive. The ballroom was a large rectangular room connected to the base of the tower proper, and its vaulted ceiling stretched up at least ten meters. Hermione idled around, feeling restless. There really was nothing to do until the guests arrived. 

Fortunately, Hermione didn’t have to wait long. Millie and her family head in, followed by the Patils and the Bonses. 

Millie walked over to Hermione as fast as decorum permitted. “Hermione!” she greeted. “You look so nice!” 

“Thanks! You do, too.” 

Millie blushed, and fidgeted with the skirts of her forest green robes. “Thank you,” she said, cheeks turning pinker. “I’d like to introduce you to my parents, Lord Edgar Bulstrode, and Lady Anita Bulstrode. Mum and Dad, this is my good friend, Hermione Granger.” 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lady Bulstrode said. “Millicent speaks highly of you.” 

It was Hermione’s turn to blush. “Thank you, Lady Bulstrode.” 

“You have no need to thank me for stating a simple fact, Miss Granger. Now, I am sure you two have plenty to catch up on without adult ears present.” With that, Lady Bulstrode linked her elbow with her husband’s and walked away with Millie’s little brother in tow.

Edmund clearly was sulking, and Hermione looked at Millie in askance. 

Millie followed Hermione’s line of sight. “My brother’s mad because his friends aren’t here,” Millie explained. “The only boy close to his age here is Jacob Marchbanks, and even he’s a year older.” 

“Ah. I’m so glad you’re here now. I’m so worried I’ll make a social faux pas.”

“Pssh, you’re fine,” Millie said. “If I can do it, you can do it.” 

Hermione relaxed the tiniest bit. “Okay. Say, does it look like Susan Bones needs to be rescued from the tender mercies of the Patil twins?”

“Oomph. I would say yes. Oh, we should see if the bar has bubbly lemonade on our way over…” 

The evening passed in a blur. Hermione found herself chatting with Millie, Lily, Susan, and much to her surprise, Aoife Moran. Hermione had never spoken with the older Ravenclaw before, and had been pleasantly surprised by her friendliness. Lily later told Hermione that Aoife was the heir to the Moran coven, which was the most powerful of the North Irish covens. Hermione had blanched, shocked that the girl who humored her Arithmancy questions was also such an important witch. 

Eventually, the dance floor was cleared, and a charmed orchestra began to play. Hermione wasn’t that familiar with any of the wizarding ballroom dances, and was content to watch from the side. Much to her surprise, she was asked to dance not once, but twice. Palin Patil and Barclay Urquhart each asked her to dance, and Hermione delighted in it even though she knew they were just being nice. 

It was late at night when Hermione finally curled up in her bed. She’d had the most wonderful evening, and she fell asleep with a smile on her face and pins still in her hair.

* * *

 

_ Great Hall _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 25 December 1993 _

 

Harry shuffled his feet as he waited. Sirius had owled him two weeks prior about meeting up in Hogsmeade on Yule. Harry had to ask the Headmaster for special permission to go to Hogsmeade, and the Headmaster had agreed, given that Harry was escorted there by a professor. 

Harry tapped his foot impatiently. Professor Dumbledore said Professor Lupin would be escorting him to Hogsmeade. Harry hadn’t met the other man, since he taught first and second year Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he’d seen him occasionally during meals. Apparently Professor Lupin was decent at teaching because Harry never heard complaints from the first and second year Slytherins. 

“Mr. Potter.” 

Harry jumped, startled out of his thoughts. “Yes, sir?” 

“I am Professor Lupin.” The graying man reached out a hand for Harry to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry shook the hand. “It’s nice to meet you as well,” he said politely. 

“Shall we head down to Hogsmeade?”

Harry nodded. They headed out of the Great Hall and across the wintry grounds. Professor Lupin made awkward small talk as they went, and eventually they walked in silence until they reached the gates of Hogsmeade. 

“You’re meeting your godfather in the Three Broomsticks?” Professor Lupin asked. 

“Yes.” 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll follow you in there. I’d like to grab a nice warm butterbeer before heading back up to the castle. I’ll be back in two hours to bring you back.” 

“That’s fine.” 

Harry and Professor Lupin made their way into the Three Broomsticks. The scent of butterbeer enveloped Harry’s senses as he scanned the room for his godfather. He quickly spotted him at a table in the back, and headed over to greet him. 

“Harry!” Sirius stood up, pulling Harry into a hug. “It’s good to see you! Happy Yule!”

“Happy Yule, Sirius,” Harry said, carefully extracting himself from Sirius’ exuberant embrace. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Sirius squinted across the pub. “So, who was it that walked you over from Hogwarts?”

“Professor Lupin.”

Sirius did a double take. “ _ Remus _ Lupin?”

“I think so? I don’t have him as a professor so I don’t really know him that well. Why?”

Sirius was still staring across the room. “Moony -- Remus --  _ Professor Lupin _ \-- was one of my closest friends at school. I wonder why he never owled me...eh...is he picking you up later?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius grinned broadly. “I’ll talk to him then. Anyway, how’s my favorite godson doing?”

“Aren’t I your only godson?”  
“Psshh, doesn’t mean you can’t be my favorite, eh?”  
“I suppose so. I’ve been doing pretty well. I had the second highest marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts for the fall semester, and our Quidditch team is currently undefeated.” 

Sirius beamed. “That’s great news! Who do you play next?”

“Gryffindor. I think we’ll win, too. Their Seeker isn’t very good.” 

“Ah. That would do it. Say, do you want anything to eat or drink?” 

“Sure.”

Sirius waved the barmaid over and gave her a cheery wink. “Hello, Rosmerta.” 

“Hello, Sirius. I see you haven’t changed one bit. What can I get for your today?”

“Steak and kidney pie, and a butterbeer.”

“And for you?”

“I’ll have bangers and mash, and a butterbeer as well,” Harry said. 

“Excellent choices. I’ll get your butterbeer now, and your food will be out shortly.” 

Rosmerta walked off get their drinks, and Sirius and Harry resumed their Quidditch debate. 

“What are the chances,” Harry began, “that the Chudley Cannons won’t finish in the bottom of the league this year?” 

Sirius chuckled. “Zero. They’ve been the worst in the league since I was your age.” 

“My friend Ron says they’ve got a new Keeper, and he’s better than their last one,” Harry argued. “Surely that will make a difference.”

“I doubt it. Their last Keeper could have been beaten by a half-blind Hufflepuff,” Sirius scoffed. 

“What’s this about Hufflepuffs?” Rosmerta had returned with their drinks. 

“Er, nothing,” Sirius said, flushing. “Just a turn of phrase.” 

“Hmm. You better keep it that way.” Rosmerta flounced off, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Sirius said distractedly. “Nothing.”

“Uh huh.” 

Sirius nodded seriously. “Nothing at all, Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Clearly Sirius was lying about something. 

“Say, I’ve got Yule gifts for you.” 

Harry blinked at the non sequitur. “Really?”

“Of course! I’m your godfather -- it’s my job to spoil and corrupt you!” Sirius rummaged

under the table and pulled out several packages. “Go ahead, open them!” 

 Harry studied the packages. There were several small ones that could be anything, and a

long thin one that could only be a broomstick.

“Open the small ones first.” 

Carefully, Harry tore over the brightly colored paper. The first contained a large selection of Honeydukes chocolate, and the second a book full of prank spells. The third was a store credit to Zonko’s. Harry grinned, imagining all the extra pranking supplies he could purchase. 

“You like them?”

“Yeah, all of this is fantastic! I’ve wanted the second volume of  _ Curses and _

_ Countercurses  _ for a while.” 

Sirius’ smile stretched from ear to ear. “That’s great to hear. Go on, open your big gift.” 

Harry neatly ripped the brown paper, and pulled it aside to reveal a sleek broomhandle made of highly polished ebony. The tail twigs were straight and glossy, and made from hazel. Despite knowing exactly what the broom was, Harry couldn’t help but gasping as he read the broom’s name, etched into the handle in gold letters. 

_ Firebolt _ . 

Harry looked up. “Sirius...this…” he started to protest. The Firebolt was an extremely expensive broom, and Harry wasn’t sure he could accept such a gift. 

Sirius beamed at him. “You’re welcome, Harry. Consider it making it up for all the Yules I missed. I hope you like it. I wasn’t sure if I should get hazel tail twigs or birch tail twigs, and I figured you’d want the increased turn precision more than even more power on the ascent. ” 

Harry swallowed. “It’s perfect. Thank you. My gift seems so pitiful, in comparison.” 

“Aww, I’m sure whatever you have is great,” Sirius said.

Harry pulled a hand wrapped package out of his cloak pocket. He’d bribed Colin Creevey, the annoying Gryffindor second year intent on starting a Harry Potter fan club, with a photo of himself and Colin in order to get his gift for Sirius complete. The result was a photo album of Harry and his friends around Hogwarts. Harry had even written to the  _ Daily Prophet _ to get copies of photos from the International Scholastic Quidditch Tournament. 

Sirius unwrapped the gift, and Harry fidgeting nervously. When he worked up the courage to look over at Sirius, his godfather had tears in his eyes. 

“Harry...this is an amazing gift,” Sirius said, flipping through the pages.

Harry shuffled awkwardly in his seat. “I’m glad you like it. I left some empty spots, too. I thought we could fill it in with pictures of us.” 

Sirius wiped away the tears streaming freely from his eyes. “Thank you, Harry. This is the best gift you could give me.”

 


	12. New Year, New Schemes

# 

_ Personal Quarters of Severus Prince _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 December 1993 _

 

“And that would be checkmate,” Severus said, a self-satisfied grin making its way across his face. 

Aurora groaned theatrically. “Why do I feel like you always win at chess?” 

“Probably because I do always win at chess.” 

Aurora sighed, and took another sip of her wine. “And you’re such a gentleman about it. Modest, too.” 

“Thank you, Aurora. I’m touched.”

“Oh shush.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, but it wasn’t a tense silence. Rather, it was the simple sound of two old friends enjoying each other’s company. 

“Severus?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really always win at chess?”

Severus sighed. Aurora always became somewhat maudlin after several glasses of wine. Severus took a sip of his drink. “Almost always.”

“Only almost?” 

Severus stared at his drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass. “I’ve lost twice,” he admitted. 

“Who beat you?” 

“Albus won once,” Severus said slowly. 

“And the other?” Aurora prompted.

“The Dark Lord.” The words escaped in a breath scarcely above a whisper, and Severus watched as Aurora shivered. 

“Worthy opponents,” Aurora managed after a couple seconds. 

Severus shrugged, unable to put his feelings into words. “Not really. I should have known better than to fall for their tricks. I was young then, and stupid…”

“I doubt you were ever stupid.”

“Naïve, then, and foolish. I thought the world existed in black and white, when it actually is rendered in infinite shades of grey.”

Aurora punched his arm gently. “Hey, I thought I was the one who was suppose to get maudlin while drinking.”

“I -- I made a lot of mistakes,” Severus said, feeling unusually vulnerable. “I regret so much of it. I look back and see the person I could  have been if I thought for one moment with my head instead of my heart. I’ve become nothing more than an insipid, bitter fool…” 

Aurora laid a finger on his lips, startling him. “Shh,” she murmured. “The only insipid fools I know sit upon gilded thrones, strutting about without a care in the world, blind to what transpires around them. You are anything but that, Severus. You couldn’t be one even if you tried.”

“But --” Severus protested. He felt an inexplicable yearning to explain himself, to finally come clean about his crimes. Surely Aurora would be able to understand what a despicable person he was. 

“Shh.” 

Severus looked away, eyes focusing on the loose thread on his socks instead of Aurora’s gaze. He was feeling more emotional than a lovesick adolescent, and the realization was nauseating. He was suppose to be the consummate Slytherin, the paragon of control -- 

Severus’ stream of thoughts was interrupted by the weight of a head on his shoulder. Apparently Aurora had decided that he would make a good pillow. 

“Aurora --”

“Shush, I’m just getting comfy.” 

Severus turned his head to complain, and was greeted instead by a faceful of braids. Deciding for once in his life to succumb to his fate rather than fight it, Severus stretched an arm over the back on the couch and propped his feet up on the table. 

They stayed like that for a while, sipping the final thirds of their drinks. Severus found it strangely peaceful, and the silence held a certain cozy quality. The grandfather clock began to chime quietly in the corner. 

“That would be midnight,” Aurora said softly. 

Severus looked down at her. The glow of the candles caught her eyes, making the amber glow gold. Severus was so preoccupied with the light phenomenon that he didn’t notice Aurora shift her weight off his shoulder. A moment later, her lips brushed against his. 

“Happy New Year,” Aurora whispered, eyes betraying the faintest hint of insecurity. 

Severus stared, a million thoughts flying through his mind at once. The rationale part of his mind demanded he take a step back, analyze the situation, then proceed forward with the path that would reap the maximum benefits for him. And as for the other part of his brain…

He leaned forward, capturing Aurora’s lips with his own, tangling one of his hands in her mass of braids. She tasted of wine, of promises, and of opportunity.

* * *

 

_ Offices of the Daily Prophet _

_ Diagon Alley, London, England _

_ 3 January 1994 _

 

Rita drummed her fingers on her desk, lost in thought. Her work on Thomas Gaunt had all but stagnated, and had been relegated to a sealed box in the corner of her office. Rita tried not to dwell on it too much -- she was sure that leads would eventually come her way. Rubbing her temples, Rita refocused on the work in front of her. Her information on Dumbledore was extremely promising, and while her probes proved it impossible to get an interview with Grindelwald, she’d gotten excellent data from some of Dumbledore’s old schoolmates, as well as from his brother. 

Rita grinned as she perused her notes. There was no love lost between Aberforth and Albus Dumbledore, and the former had been more than willing to complain about Albus’ misguided ambitions. Of course, Rita might have helped Aberforth along a bit when she slipped a potion into his Firewhiskey, but it wasn’t as if there was any lasting harm to the man. As long as Rita got her information, it was worth it, and that was doubly true when it came to wreaking havoc on certain individuals’ political careers. 

In Rita’s opinion, Albus Dumbledore had far too much power, and had held it for far too long. Not only was he the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, which allowed him to preside over and moderate debate in the House of Commons, but he also was the Supreme Mugwump on the International Confederation of Wizards, which allowed him to control the debate there as well. It gave him a nearly unprecedented influence over politics, and yet what concerned Rita the most was his position as Headmaster of Hogwarts. 

As the Headmaster, Dumbledore had absolute influence on Hogwarts school policy, which ranged from hiring decision to verifying curriculums to overseeing student life. In fact, it was many of Dumbledore’s changes that brought in more Muggle terminology. It had taken the Wizengamot over five years to pass a resolution that would reinstate wizarding-only terms for holidays as well as add in Wizarding Culture classes. It was an almost contradictory policy on Dumbledore’s behalf, given his youthly dreams of conquest. Rita would most definitely need to conduct more research on that aspect of the man. She was already planning on writing an exposé on him--  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore _ \-- and once she had enough research material compiled, she was planning on approaching several gossip magazines both in Britain and on the Continent.  _ Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald: Secret Gay Lovers _ would be sure to pull in readers and Galleons by the thousands. 

Rita stretched. Optimistically, she’d be done with the Dumbledore project within the year. It would certainly be difficult, given the depth of research she needed to have, but it was possible. Smiling, Rita went back to organizing her notes. It was time to do what she did best: gather information and destroy reputations.

* * *

 

_ Office of Remus Lupin _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 4 January 1994 _

 

The office door had been left slightly ajar, and Harry debated for a moment before knocking. It was best to err on the side of politeness. 

“Come in.” 

Harry entered. Professor Lupin’s office was sparsely decorated. It had the requisite desk

and chairs, and a bookshelf with several well-worn tomes. A tank of water sat in one corner with a rather nasty looking creature in it. 

“I see you’ve spotted the grindylow,” Professor Lupin said, following Harry’s gaze. “I’m watching him for Professor Scrimgeour. I believe he plans to start you on aquatic creatures after the holidays. I’ll give you a tip on the grindylow,” he continued with a wink, “they’ve got quite a nasty grip, but their fingers are quite brittle and easy to break. Anyway, enough of my rambling. Would you care for tea?”

“Yes, two sugars and a bit of milk, please.” 

Professor Lupin swished his wand, and a slightly chipped kettle busied itself making tea. Harry eyed it critically but said nothing. It appeared that the professor’s minimalist decorations were more than just a choice -- everything had a distinctly shabby aspect to it. Professor Lupin passed Harry a mug, and Harry wrapped his hands around it.

“Sirius said you and my parents were best mates at school.” 

The graying professor nodded. “We were. Not so much your mum, though, especially at first. But I was close with your father and godfather the moment we met on the train.”

“Really?” 

Professor Lupin smiled, clearly remembering a fond memory. “Yes. I was a rather bookish lad. I’d holed myself up in a compartment with a book when your father and Sirius barged in. We’d only been on the train for an hour, and they’d already managed to prank several other students. They were looking for a place to hide, so they climbed up the luggage rack and hid behind my trunk. Shortly after, the students they pranked came looking for them, and I played the innocent. Afterwards, Sirius and James decided I would be a great accomplice, and we quickly got to know each other.” 

Professor Lupin chuckled. “I’d initially thought I’d be a Ravenclaw, but after spending just a couple hours with Sirius and James, I quickly decided that Gryffindor was the place for me.” 

“What was my dad like?” 

“James was the quintessential Gryffindor. He was always getting into mischief, and him and Sirius would have easily outclassed even the Weasley twins in terms of pranking. You look just like your father, you know, but with your mother’s eyes.” 

Harry knew that already, but he wasn’t so rude as to point it out. “What type of pranks did my father pull?”

“All sorts...loads of practical jokes. Sirius and your father were always pranking the Slytherins.”

“Hey!”

Professor Lupin shrugged. “We were all Gryffindors, and House rivalries were at an all-time high. I can’t say I’m proud of the pranks we pulled, because some of them were horribly off color, but we found them funny at the time.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “What was the best prank you pulled?”

“Well, one time we turned the Entrance Hall into a tropical island.”

Harry gaped. “No way! How’d you do it?”

Professor Lupin smiled. “It was a rather complex piece of Transfiguration, combined with some high-level Charms work. It took us a couple of trial runs to get it done, and in the end it was definitely worth it.” 

“I wish I could have seen that.”

“Mm. It was quite something. You know, I think I might have a photo of it somewhere. I’ll have to dig through my old albums, though.”

“Really? That’d be wicked! Thanks, sir!” 

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Harry took a sip of his tea. 

“So, any other great pranks? Or any great prank spells?” he added, thinking of Draco. 

Professor Lupin raised an eyebrow. “I hope you aren’t considering following in your father’s footsteps.”

Internally, Harry scolded himself. Apparently he hadn’t been subtle enough. “Er, of course not, Professor.”

“There’s no one you’re thinking of pranking?”

“Er…”

Professor Lupin looked at him expectantly. 

“Well,” Harry said, stretching out the word, “there is  _ one _ person, but it isn’t malicious, I promise!”

Professor Lupin made a sound of disbelief. 

“Really! My friend’s roommate leaves socks  _ everywhere _ and nothing we can do will stop him from spreading his sock-ly menace!”

“Ah. And you’ve tried talking to a prefect?”

Harry made a face. “That wouldn’t work.  _ He _ thinks he’s above everyone else.”

Professor Lupin looked thoughtful. “You know, on a completely unrelated note to our present discussion, there is a hex that causes one’s socks to stick to the bottom of one’s shoes.”

Harry stared. It sounded perfect. “Hypothetically speaking,” Harry began, “if someone was interesting in the, er, scintillating magical theory behind the mechanics of that hex, would a professor be willing to explain?”

Professor Lupin smiled. “Of course. Who I am to stand in the way of a student who wishes to further his understanding of magic?”

Harry grinned. He had a new plan, and it was going splendidly.

 


	13. The Messiah's Plan

# 

_ Personal Office Space of Thomas Gaunt _

_ Gaunt House, Cornwall, England _

_ 15 January 1994 _

 

“It must be done impeccably.” 

“Of course. That goes without saying.” 

“Mmm. Has Wormtail made any progress?” 

“Surprisingly enough, yes. He found an alternative to the Flesh, Blood, and Bone ritual.” 

“How fascinating,” the other man drawled. “And what’s the drawback?”

Thomas winced. “The potion is ridiculously complex, for one. It is most definitely beyond our brewing capabilities, and also requires obscure ingredients. I would estimate it to be nearly Grand Sorcerer level material.” 

“Ah. Severus would be required, then.” 

“Yes. And it may even challenge his expertise.” 

“Really?” 

Thomas nodded. “The base of the potion requires both phoenix tears and basilisk venom, which I thought were impossible to combine. It also requires blood of a Hebridean Black and the eye of Thestral. All these ingredients are, of course, highly regulated, and make up only a small percentage of all the components we would require.” 

“And the merits of this potion are?”

Thomas smiled tightly. “Our enemies won’t know that you once again walk among us. Lucius’ pockets are deep enough to procure the necessary ingredients given time, and Severus should be capable of brewing the potion.”

“Indeed. And do you trust Severus?”

Thomas hesitated. The new Lord Prince was wily, and Thomas found it difficult to discern the man’s motives, especially since he spent so much time sitting in the pocket of Albus Dumbledore. “I do not trust him completely,” Thomas said slowly, “but I trust him enough for this.” 

The Dark Lord nodded. “As do I. Now, however, I tire.” A skeletal hand emerged from the blankets clutching a long yew wand. With a flick, the door swung open, revealing a sweating Wormtail. “Bring me back to my chambers, Wormtail. It is once again time to milk Nagini.” 

Stuttering, the pathetic man took the Dark Lord in his arms, and after a frightened look over his shoulder, vanished into the darkness of the corridor. 

Thomas wandlessly closed the office door and propped his feet up on his desk. Talking to his other self was always stressful, as the Dark Lord wasn’t always of a clear mind. Of course, he wouldn’t admit this to himself, and Thomas had to muddle his way through regardless of what his older incarnation felt. 

Sighing, Thomas fiddled idly with the Peverell signet ring. The plan Lord Voldemort formulated in the late 1970s had been brilliant, and it certainly had preserved the strength of their movement. Thomas shuddered, thinking of the stunted progress they would have made without him. He could only imagine Lucius, playing the innocent and hiding in his manor while Thaddeus Nott continued to quietly murder those who displeased him. There would have been none of the Traditional renaissance that Thomas orchestrated, and no advancements in the international arena. 

It was a decidedly good idea that Thomas had been brought onto the scene, although it was one that weighed heavily on the Dark Lord’s sanity. Thomas shrugged the thought away. There was a good chance Lord Voldemort’s fickle moods were caused by the cramped homunculus he resided in, or the inordinate amount of time he was forced to spend with the snivelling Pettigrew. At any rate, the upcoming fight in the Wizengamot would need to be fought on multiple fronts, and there was nobody better to control the violent side of things than a slightly unhinged genius. 

A knock sounded on the office door, and Thomas removed his feet from the desk before giving the word to enter. 

“Ah, Lucius, I’m glad you could make it.” 

The blond man smiled. “As am I. Now, tell me, what is the news from Ireland?” 

“Orlaith Morholt continues to be...difficult.” 

Lucius snorted delicately. “That’s to be expected. She’s been in power for what, four years now?”

“Four years,” Thomas confirmed absently, mind wandering. Orlaith Morholt had become Coven Head in a wake of death. Three of the Morholt Elders, Deirdre, Bronagh, and Rionach had perished in a magical accident, if the rumours were true. It was unusual, but not unbelievably so. The Morholts were known for meddling and corrupting old rituals in ways that made even Thomas uncomfortable, and it would not be surprising if one of their dark experiments went wrong.

“And the others?” Lucius asked, bringing Thomas back to the present.

“The Dames of both the Quigley and the Quirke covens are hesitant to adopt too strong of a stance. Aileen Quirke expressed a desire to remain neutral -- they are, after all, the least Traditional of the southern covens, and they do not wish to be politically associated with the Morholts. As for Saoirse Quigley, she also seemed reluctant, although I am chalking that up to inexperience.”

“A fair supposition. How long has Saoirse Quigley been Coven Head? Two years?”

“One and a half. I do believe she will be sympathetic to our cause, and supportive of our philosophies. If she is not, I am certain we could convince her to come around to our way of thinking. After all, a Progressive coven would entirely shift our calculus.” 

Lucius nodded once. “And tragic accidents incur many extraneous costs, not, of course,” he added quickly, “that the Malfoy vaults cannot sustain such an expense. There are simply more profitable venues in which we can invest.” 

Thomas stifled a chuckle. For an ostentatiously wealthy man, Lucius could be funny about his money.

“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” Thomas said smoothly. “Now, legislatively, we have quite a bit of work to do, particularly after the poor reception of Lord Yaxley’s Irish History bill. If we can develop legislative momentum, we will develop a beneficial vicious cycle. The more pro-Irish resolutions we pass, the more likely the covens will be to help us. The most difficult part will be the beginning.” 

“I agree with you completely. Now, on the matter of Niamh Rowan…” 

Thomas internally groaned. Lucius had been rather insistent of late that Thomas find himself a wife, and Niamh Rowan was one of the many possible candidates. The young matriarch of the Rowan coven could easily become a formidable ally, especially if they wished to control Ireland. Unfortunately, the match was unfeasible given the uncertainty in the timeline. Niamh Rowan was not the sort of witch who would wait, and Thomas had no desire to anger a potential ally. 

“I have owled with her,” Thomas began diplomatically, “and I believe the match will not be feasible.” 

Lucius scowled. “Really, Thomas?”

“Truly.”

“And the rationale?”

“You overstep your place, Lucius.”

“I --”

“I may wear a different face, but I am the same man you pledged your utmost loyalty to. You would well not to challenge my judgement.” 

Lucius swallowed hard. “I apologize.” 

Silence hung heavily in the air, only to be broken by the shuffling of papers on the desk. Thomas cleared his throat. “And you, Lucius,” he said softly. “How goes your process of procuring another heir?” 

Lucius’ jaw tightened. “Narcissa is progressing well,” he said shortly. “Not that that concerns you.”

Thomas smiled. “Touché.”

* * *

 

_ Nott Hall _

_ Midlands, England _

_ 16 January 1994 _

 

Aria Nott, the eldest and only surviving child of Thaddeus Nott and his first wife, Anastasiya Dolohova, had a problem. Or, more precisely, a conundrum. She had just received a letter, and had no idea how to begin responding to it. Aria stared at the sheet of parchment, desperately wishing it would simply vanish, leaving its contents the bizarre remnants of a fever dream. 

It wasn’t even as if Aria had received a typical upbringing. Thaddeus Nott was a cold and distant father, even by pureblood standards, and while she was on good terms with her half-siblings, Aria wasn’t nearly as close with Theo and Diana as they were with each other. It would have been different, if Helena had survived, but Aria’s younger sister had been stillborn, and the labor had also killed Aria’s mother. 

Aria had been three years old when her mother passed, and she had only the haziest memories of her presence. After turning five, she spent summers in Russia with her grandparents. It’d been a terrifying experience at first, since her grandparents refused to speak English with her. Eventually, she’d learned Russian, and could speak it like a native, which her younger siblings couldn’t do. 

She’d met the old tsar for the first time when she was eight. Vladimir Dolohov was her grandfather’s older brother, and a stern and intimidating man. Aria had nearly cried, and only resisted by the skin of her teeth. Now that she was seventeen and far better versed in the world of politics, she was seldom intimidated by the tsar. Besides, Vladimir’s son, Sergei, was a different kind of scary. 

Aria eyed the letter again, trying to puzzle out the hidden message behind it. Madelaine Dolohova, née Delacour, was the perfect insidious complement to Tsar Sergei’s raw power. Her letters were always elegantly composed and filled with layers of meaning. It often took Aria several reads, and several hours to completely decipher what her cousin meant, and even then she could never be sure if there was something she missed. 

The letter had started innocuously enough, but had quickly taken an odd turn. Flicking her wand out of her sleeve, Aria summoned the parchment from across the room and gave it another read. 

_ Dear Aria, _

_ Congratulations on your admission to the Oxford College of Wizardry as well as the Egypt Centre of Alchemical Studies. This is an admirable academic achievement, and you will certainly face difficult career choices in the future. If you decide to pursue alchemy, I encourage you to owl the OCoW to determine if they have an exchange program with the Egypt Centre. As you know, the OCoW is a prestigious institution, and connections forged abroad can prove invaluable. The Egyptian style of robes are also quite becoming, and the Library of Alexandria remains a beautiful testament to the achievements of wizardkind.  _

_ It seems like only yesterday that you were here in Russia for the first time. You have grown so much over the years, and should truly exalt in your accomplishments. I hear from your cousins that you spend time tutoring younger students, which is a wonderful way to both give back to your community and to mentor the next generation of wizards. What subjects do you tutor? I am intrigued to hear more about your academic exploits.  _

 

_ Your cousin, _

_ Madelaine _

 

_ Tsarina of Russia _

 

It was relatively easy to read between the lines for the first part of the letter. Despite the tsarina’s allusions to academics, it was clear she wanted Aria to establish connections in Egypt. The desert country was a mecca for wizarding achievements dating back to the ancient wizard-gods who ruled beside Muggle pharaohs and convinced the Muggle rulers of their divinity. 

The Dolohov family had many connections across Europe, but few, if any, in Africa. Since the Empire was constantly spreading its sphere of influence, it only made sense to make inroads in Egypt. 

The second part of the letter was more difficult to decipher. Or, rather, the motivation was. Aria wasn’t part of the Hogwarts Tutor Group, and the only person she tutored was Hermione Granger. Aria frowned in concentration. Somehow, the muggleborn witch had attracted the attention of the Russian crown, and Aria wasn’t sure she wanted to know how.

Aria summoned a blank piece of parchment along with her quill and ink. She dipped her quill in the ink, then paused to think. She would have to word the letter carefully as to not anger the tsarina, but also as to not endanger Hermione. Aria had grown rather fond of the younger witch over the weeks and viewed her almost as another sibling. Sometimes Aria even wished Hermione was her cousin instead of Darya and Ekaterina, who were around the same age but were rather annoying. 

On the other hand, Hermione was very mature for her age, and disturbingly good at learning new spells. Aria knew for a fact she hadn’t been nearly as advanced when she was Hermione’s age despite having had private tutors over the summer months. If Aria took the time to really think about Hermione’s progress, the ease with which she learned new spells was unsettling. But then again, the girl did have a solid source of motivation. 

Aria shuddered as the memory of Hermione lying in the Hospital Wing came to mind. Snape -- no, Professor  _ Prince _ \-- had been absolutely furious. It’d been the first time in all her years at Hogwarts that Aria had seen him lose his temper, and it’d been absolutely terrifying. 

Aria shook her head to clear it. There was no use dwelling on the past. She had a letter to compose, and a metaphorical tightrope to balance. 


	14. The Prophetess and the Politician

_North Tower_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_20 January 1994_

 

Incense lay heavy in the air, coating everything in a thick blanket of scent. Sybill wandered through the air, pausing for a moment to jab her wand at the brazier. A fresh wave of lotus, sandalwood, and vanilla rushed outwards, and Sybill inhaled deeply. Serenity washed over her, and she stood, arms extended, and mind reaching out to the forces of the cosmos.

Asking the powers that be for guidance was typically something she did while completely and utterly plastered. The visions she saw were seldom present, and sherry simply made the burden easier to bear.

Most of the denizens of Hogwarts viewed her as a fraud, which was perfectly fine. They didn’t realize the terrible pictures the future held, or how sight of it twisted the mind and distorted the senses. They didn’t understand that Sybill had nearly lost her sanity pursuing her Grand Sorceress title in Divination.

The power of Divination ran in Sybill’s veins. Her great-great grandmother, Cassandra Trelawney, had been a renowned Seer through both the British Isles and the Continent, and she was part of an unbroken line of prophetesses descended from the Delphic Oracle. The gift manifested differently within the family, and in Sybill it _burned_.

Sybill closed her eyes, and stretched outwards. For a moment, everything held still. Sybill pushed outwards again. The balance shattered as a wave of color and sound rushed inwards, assaulting her senses. Images began to appear, popping into her field of vision and twisting around in a kaleidoscope of meaning.  A black haired man rode astride a broken horse, galloping fiercely into battle. The horse’s legs splintered as it ran, and the man urged it onwards, looking for all the world like an avenging god. His eyes glittered dangerously under the pale light of the blood moon, and a sword glimmered in his hand as he slashed it downwards. Sybill watched as the image ruptured, shattering into millions of pieces, each containing a different future.

In another fragment, an old man sat behind a looming chessboard. The man’s eyes were gutted, leaving only bloody sockets behind. Across from him sat a creature of shadow. It reached a skeletal hand out to move a piece, and the board snapped, giving birth to a witch with wild hair and no face. She held a wand in each hand, one delicate vinewood and the other brutal blackthorn. The wands twisted in unison, conjuring a nimbus of magic that resolved itself into a set of chains. The chains wrapped tighter, obscuring Sybill’s vision until the darkness became light.

A woman swung from the rafters of an ancient house while a red-haired boy became a man with the eyes of the Wizengamot upon him.

A man cried as he killed his son, flames encircling them both.

A burned man stood in front of a basalt abbey, laughing as death crawled into the earth.

The images flashed faster, and Sybill caught only the barest hints -- a flash of red, a brilliant green, and the seal of a foreign crown. Her mind felt as if it would explode, and her world descended into a sea of blood and a cacophony of sounds tied together by the scream of a dying phoenix.

“Sybill!”

The voice was as if from a long distance away.

“Sybill!”

She opened her eyes. Incense still floated in the air, and Sybill inhaled, calm diffusing through her veins.

“What did you see?” Aurora’s voice was steady, but Sybill could sense an undercurrent of fear.

Sybill rubbed her eyes. “Many things,” she said, “and nothing at all.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Jupiter ascends, the prodigal son dies. The storm and the rising knight unite with the lost one, and conspire against Pluto. All is uncertain, but there will be blood.” Sybill shuddered. “I need...time. Time to think.”

“Time to pray?” Aurora asked wryly.

Sybill looked at her blankly. “Only if you’re willing to sacrifice everything.”

* * *

 

_Personal Office Space of Amelia Bones_

_Ministry of Magic, London, England_

_20 January 1994_

 

Amelia was halfway through eating her lunch when the missive arrived on her desk. Torn between opening the memo and finishing her salad, Amelia stabbed a forkful of lettuce with one hand while the other opened the letter. She perused it idly, then nearly spat out her salad. Taking a breath to steady herself, Amelia started again from beginning.

 

_Dear Lady Regent Bones,_

 

_I thought it would be prudent to pass on this piece of intelligence to you based on your roles in both the DMLE and the Wizengamot. Please see the enclosed letter. If you have any queries, kindly direct them to my office._

 

_Yours in sincerity,_

 

_Philip Rivers_

_Secretary of Foreign Affairs_

 

Amelia swallowed, and unrolled the inner parchment. Philip Rivers seldom contacted her, and when he did, it was always for a good reason. Amelia read the first couple lines, then pushed her lunch away. The missive was rather lengthy, and covered the ward schema of Ireland. It took her nearly half an hour to read through it once, and another twenty-seven minutes to fully make sense of the dense writing.

Apparently, the ward stones had been adjusted.

It was seemingly a minor detail, but one that spoke volumes about the political situation in the neighboring island. Ward stones required small adjustments over the years to keep them properly aligned, but major adjustments only occured when the entire ward schema needed changes.

The last time the Irish stones underwent a major adjustment was in 1922 when the southern covens split from the northern covens in a bloody civil war. Amelia shuddered to think of what the adjustment could mean this time. It certainly was nothing good, and the passive-aggressive equivalent of a power move.

Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose pensively. She’d have to send an undercover Auror unit to investigate. Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks would be perfect to send, but Moody was unfortunately confined to desk work after his latest injury, and Tonks was too inexperienced to send alone. Amelia mentally perused her roster of Aurors. Emmeline Vance, while not ideal, would have to do.

Amelia made a note to owl the pair of witches with a briefing, then moved on to the stack of Wizengamot papers that had made their way into her inbox in the interim. Most of the papers were filled with dense legalese, and Amelia skimmed them, knowing she’d get a better summary from Lord Moon’s secretary. After flagging several bills for personal in-depth reading, Amelia moved to the bottom of the stack where someone oddly enough had included clippings from the _Daily Prophet_.

 

_LORD GAUNT TO PROVIDE SUMMER OPPORTUNITIES FOR MUGGLEBORNS_

_by Charity Goodwinter_

 

_In a recent press release Lord Thomas Gaunt stated that he planned to commence a summer camp program for muggleborn students to allow them to experience aspects of a traditional wizarding childhood._

_“It is of paramount importance for all wizarding children to have a chance to be exposed to the unique and special aspects of our culture,” Lord Gaunt told the_ Daily Prophet. _“From professional Quidditch games to historical sights to zoos, we have a multitude of excursions that Muggles cannot partake in. It would disenfranchise our future citizens to deprive them of such opportunities, and there truly is something for everyone.”_

_When asked of the cost of the Summer Experience program, Lord Gaunt did not provide exact details, but did state that the camp would be affordable for most students. There are also a limited number of scholarships available for outstanding students and those with extreme financial need._

 

Amelia pursed her lips. She didn’t hate the idea on principle, per say, but she didn’t like the idea of innocent muggleborns going to a program sponsored by a  Blood Purist. The idea of the program seemed to go completely against Lord Gaunt’s entire ideology, and Amelia couldn’t help but wonder when it would turn sinister.

* * *

_Letters Sent On 20 January 1994_

* * *

 

 

_Dear Sirius,_

_Our outing last weekend was rather delightful. I would have never guessed you had such a sweet and thoughtful approach to life. I look forward to our lunch this weekend. I can hardly wait to see what you have in store for us._

 

_Maura_

  


 

_My dearest Maura,_

 

_I believe you will rather enjoy what I have planned. While my own house is not yet fit for polite company, the alternate location is quite lovely._

 

_Sirius_

  


* * *

_Letters Sent On 21 January 1994_

* * *

 

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_Wow, I can’t believe you convinced Remus to teach you the sock-sticking hex! That was one of our personal favorites back in our Hogwarts days. It’s great that you learned how to cast it, too. I remember that one being especially tricky._

_I have a couple other ideas that might help you with your prank. I’ll tell you all about them next time I see you._

_How’s Quidditch going? I hope the Firebolt is working out well. I should be hearing lots of stories about you winning, right?_

_Anyway, let me know how school is going. And, on a completely unrelated note, what do you think of Blaise Zabini?_

 

_Sirius_

 

 

 

_Dear Ron,_

 

_Mum had another episode last night. I haven’t told Ginny yet because I don’t want her to worry too much, but I thought I should keep you in the loop. If you need anything, or want to talk about it, just send me an owl. Given the circumstances, we can probably get special permission to meet in Hogsmeade._

 

_Bill_

* * *

_Letters Sent on 22 January 1994_

* * *

 

_Dear Bill,_

 

_Is Mum alright? What happened this time? How bad is it? Is she in St. Mungo’s again? Please talk to the Headmaster so we can talk in person or at least Floo call._

 

_Ron_

 

_P.S. I think you should tell Ginny what’s going on._

 

 

 

_Dear Sirius,_

 

_I can’t wait to hear about all your prank ideas. Ron, Theo and I have concocted a real solid plan, and if you just happened to conveniently know any other good hexes or spells, we could definitely use them. For educational purposes. We’re all Ravenclaws in disguise, right?_

_The Firebolt is so awesome! Malfoy was practically drooling over it the first day of practice, and then he was pouty for the rest of the week. I guess his father refused to buy him one -- imagine that! The acceleration and the turning precision took a little bit to get use to, but now I can fly even better than ever. The Hufflepuffs literally won’t be able to see me coming._

_School is good. Defense Against the Dark Arts is definitely my favorite class._

_Blaise is okay. I don’t really know him that well, but he’s friends with Theo, so sometimes Ron and I play Exploding Snap with him. He usually wins, too. Why do you ask?_

_Anyways, I hope I can see you during the next Hogsmeade weekend. Definitely not just because of all the prank spells you know._

 

_Harry_

 

 

 

_Dear Blaise,_

 

_I passed a rather enjoyable weekend with my latest suitor. We will discuss this more over_

_the Eostre break, and if all continues to progress favorably, you may have a new stepfather before  the year is out._

 

_Much love,_

 

_Mama_

* * *

  _Letter Sent on 23 January 1994_

* * *

 

_Dear Madelaine,_

 

_After viewing the dossier of information you provided, I believe your suspicions are correct. I will continue to investigate the matter, and perhaps take an extended trip to the United Kingdom. The weather is quite lovely there at this time of year._

_I will ensure that you stay informed._

  
  



	15. Certain Truths

# 

 

_ Personal Quarters of Severus Prince _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 23 January 1994 _

 

“...what do you think, Severus?” 

Severus looked up from grading sixth year Potions essays. Aurora was comfortably sprawled on what she’d dubbed ‘her corner’ of the couch, ostensibly grading Astronomy papers. Their non-relationship had hardly progressed since New Year’s, and they hadn’t discussed the kiss at all. Severus wasn’t sure if Aurora wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, or if she was simply waiting for Severus to make the next move. Either way, he was rather flummoxed and wasn’t sure what to make of the event. Aurora spent more evenings than before in his quarters grading, so she was at least interested in remaining friends. 

“...Severus?” 

He shook his head slightly to clear it. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

Aurora chuckled. “You do that far too often. Anyway, what do you think of this?” she asked, waving a copy of the  _ Evening Prophet _ . 

Severus squinted. “Of what?”

“You haven’t read the  _ Evening Prophet  _ yet?”

“No. It’s usually just twaddle and the insipid gossip section. Besides,  _ I’ve _ been busy marking.” 

Aurora ignored the jibe. “The gossip section was actually quite informative.”

Severus snorted lightly. “I’m sure it was.” 

“No, seriously. It’s about one of your old yearmates. Listen.” Aurora cleared her throat, then began to read. 

 

_ AN AMOROUS APPEARANCE: SIRIUS BLACK AND MAURA ZABINI _

_ by Cassidy Higgins _

 

_ Lord Sirius Black was spotted with none other than Maura Zabini earlier this Sunday,  _ writes Cassidy Higgins, Senior Gossip Columnist _. Lord Black booked a private room at L’Esprit de Coriandre, where the duo shared a romantic dinner. Lord Black clearly has recovered from his extended stay in Azkaban, and was using his roguish good looks to charm Zabini. The pair shared more than one longing glance, and this reporter can only speculate as to what will come next. Will there be an engagement? Will Maura Zabini become the next Lady Black?  _

_ Only time will tell, and the matter is only further complicated Lord Black’s godson, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the future Lord Potter. Zabini could become a new mother figure for our orphaned saviour, bringing him the family life he has so sorely missed.  _

 

Severus took a moment to process the information. “That’s...got to be one of the stupidest things I’ve heard.” 

“The fact that Sirius Black is dating Maura Zabini, or that the  _ Prophet _ thinks she’d be an excellent step-mother for Mr. Potter?”

“Yes.” 

Aurora laughed. “By Merlin, Azkaban must have addled his brains!” 

“No shite,” Severus said, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t even go on a  _ date _ with Maura Zabini. Not even if I was bribed with a hundred thousand Galleons.” 

“Really?”

“Really.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Severus rubbed his temples. He hadn’t known Maura Zabini growing up. She was around his age, but Italian, so she’d attended Ferviditious. Despite not having an in-depth knowledge of her personality, it didn’t take a genius to recognize a serial killer. Maura Zabini was six times wed, six times widowed, and each husband was more wealthy than the last. The fact that it was impossible to pin the murders on her was even more disturbing. 

“Severus? You’ve gone somewhere else again.” 

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Maura Zabini.”

“Yeah?”

“Sirius Black is going to get himself killed.” 

“Six times wed, six times widowed?”

Severus grimaced. “Make that seven.” He didn’t like the thought of it. He was fine with Sirius Black dying -- the man was a prick, and a fool -- but he didn’t want even the slightest chance of Maura Zabini gaining control of the Black Wizengamot seat. The Black family inheritance laws were complicated enough that it would take some serious finagling to make Blaise the heir, and frankly Severus wasn’t sure if it was even possible. If it was, however, Severus didn’t want to contemplate the possibility. Maura Zabini was dangerous enough to make the infamous Morholt coven uncomfortable. 

“It’s an auspicious number,” Aurora said. 

Severus blinked at the seeming non sequitur, then stared as his mind spun. Seven was the most significant number in Arithmancy, and it was also deemed the most magically powerful. Severus could think of half a dozen ways Maura Zabini could use the death of her seventh husband in runic or ritual magic to gain unprecedented power. 

“Well, fuck,” Severus said eloquently. 

“Sounds about right.” 

“If Maura Zabini gets ahold of a Wizengamot seat, it would be disastrous. The power, the prestige, and all the trappings passed on to her and her spawn?” Severus shook his head vehemently. “It’s a no-go. I hate Sirius Black for good reasons, and I still wouldn’t wish this fate upon him.” 

“What do you suggest we do?” 

Severus shrugged, noting the use of the plural. “Nothing. Zabini hasn’t made any serious moves yet, and they aren’t engaged. I’m sure the  _ Prophet _ ’s article will stir up enough of the upper crust purebloods. Besides, there’s no way the Black sisters would allow Maura Zabini to seize control of their family’s assets.”

Aurora frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Andromeda might not do much, but Bellatrix would break out of Azkaban to keep some commoner from the Black inheritance. As for Narcissa...the woman would do anything for her son.” 

Aurora leaned back into the couch cushions. “Good grief, I don’t know if I should be more afraid of the Black sisters or Maura Zabini.” 

Severus shrugged again. “Let’s speak of something else.”

“Politics?”

“If you wish.” 

“What’s your stance?”

Severus blinked at the question. “What do you mean?”

Aurora leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees and chin in her hands. “What are you playing at, Severus? I’ve been following the news, and you’re an impossible man to pin down. You’re maddeningly neutral -- Traditional enough as to not anger the Blood Purists, yet leaning close enough to Neutral-Traditionalist to keep them and the Progressives in line. I’ve researched more than most Lords in case Kingsley ever gives me the Shafiq seat, and things aren’t adding up. What gives?”

Severus resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. He’d been anticipating having this conversation, but not having it so soon. “It’s complicated,” he began, purposely stalling. Some of it he couldn’t tell Aurora -- he was bound by oath -- and as for the rest, he had to keep his dignity. 

“We have time,” Aurora said softly. “You can explain.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“There’s reasons...look, there’s just some things I can’t tell you. This is one of them.” Severus looked down, ready for her to storm out. His second real friend, and he’d ruined it again. 

“Can’t or won’t?”

Severus’ head jerked up. 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Severus swallowed. 

“Yes,” he said, mouth bone-dry. 

Aurora raised an eyebrow, and Severus looked away. 

“I can’t tell you much,” Severus finally said, “but I was young, then. Young and very foolish.”

“We were all young and foolish once,” Aurora murmured.  

Severus shook his head. “Few were as foolish as me.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

“It’s worse. People died because of me. This, among other things, is the only way to repay my debt.”

“Severus --”

“Don’t try to tell me I’m not guilty. I know it was my fault.” 

“Stop being maudlin, and come over here.” Aurora held her arms open, and Severus stared at her, thoroughly confused. “I’m going to give you a hug, and you’re going to accept it.” 

“Why?”

“Because you need one, Merlin damn it.” Aurora had a very determined expression on her face, and Severus reluctantly sat next to her. Before he knew it, her arms were wrapped around him. He could faintly smell her perfume -- a mixture of vanilla and neroli. Severus could feel himself relaxing.

“It must hurt, holding all that inside,” Aurora said softly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I do it because there’s no other way.”

They sat in silence, and Severus could slowly feel the tension drain away. 

“You should take me to Hogsmeade sometime.”

“What?” Severus asked, startled. 

“You should take me to Hogsmeade.”

“As in on a date?”

“Yes, as a date.”

Severus stared at her incredulously. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“You want to go on a date with me?”

“Yes, you dunderhead.”

“But I --”

Aurora gave him a look. “Your past may shape you, Severus, but it doesn’t define who you are, and it certainly doesn’t dictate who you will become. Besides, I like you how you are.”

“I -- Aurora, would you like to get tea in Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” 

Aurora smiled gently. “Of course I would.”

* * *

 

_ Offices of the Daily Prophet _

_ London, England _

_ 24 January 1994 _

 

Rita was in a pissy mood. Between the difficulty in finding dirt on Albus Dumbledore, the idiocy of her boss, and the competency of the latest intern, Rita had plenty to vent about, and no one to take her frustrations out upon. She’d already returned to Godric’s Hollow to pick Bathilda Bagshot’s brain again, but the old witch hadn’t given her any new information other than a worn photograph. Rita glared at it -- the teenage versions of the wizards stood with their arms draped companionably over each other’s shoulders, clearly laughing at some forgotten joke. Dumbledore’s hair was long, just brushing his shoulders, and he sported a wispy attempt at a beard. 

Rita shoved the photo aside. She needed something fresh. Quill in hand, Rita picked up her notes from her interview of Aberforth Dumbledore several months prior. If she was lucky, which she usually was, she’d find a useful tidbit she’d previously overlooked. If she wasn’t lucky, she’d have to find black market Veritaserum and risk one more interview with Bathilda.

Rita skimmed her notes. It was mostly useless drivel. Aberforth had been happy to complain about how pushy Albus had been, especially after he’d become inebriated enough for Rita to slip him a potion. 

She continued to read, running a manicured nail down the side of the parchment. There was nothing, nothing, nothing...ah ha! Rita grinned maniacally. There was a mention of a close childhood friend of Albus’, a man named Elphias Doge. Apparently Doge and the eldest Dumbledore brother had planned to travel the world together upon graduating Hogwarts. Albus, as it turned out, was ultimately unable to go due to the passing of his mother, and the need to take care of his younger sister. 

Rita frowned. She’d hadn’t known that the Dumbledores had a sister, let alone one young enough to require constant care. Rita quickly made a note to investigate the girl, then set about composing a letter to Doge. The letter would have to be crafted carefully, after all she wouldn’t want to make him suspicious of her cunning masterplan.

* * *

 

_ 23 Rose Lane _

_ Framlingham, Suffolk, England _

_ 24 January 1994 _

 

Victoria Sanders was a woman of many secrets. She was a careful woman as well, and unusually lucky -- not that she believed in luck. 

Victoria pensively stirred her matzo ball soup. Her husband, Tristan, wasn’t Jewish, but he’d quickly gained an appreciation for the hearty cuisine. Victoria’s daughter, Helen, and her granddaughter, Hermione, had a similar fondness, and it was perhaps one of the things that made Victoria feel the most guilty. At the time, it had been the only way forward, the only way to escape her marriage, and the only way to remain happy. She’d been desperate, and willing to do anything to escape her traitorous family, even if it meant masquerading as a muggle. She’d been beyond relieved when Helen turned out to be a Squib, and for many years she’d believed Hermione wasn’t magical either. 

Unfortunately, the girl was a witch, and had unknowingly befriended those who were the most dangerous to her. Victoria had stewed for over a year over what to do, and finally decided to do nothing. She’d been in hiding for over fifty years, and if they hadn’t found her yet, there was no reason for them to find her now.

Victoria stirred the soup, tasted it, and added a pinch of salt. She hadn’t read a Wizarding newspaper in ages, but she was fairly certain her nephew Sergei would be tsar now. Her brother, Vladmir, was still alive to her knowledge, and living out his twilight years eastern wing of  Coldfire Castle. She wondered if he ever thought of her, his only sister, or if she’d been dismissed from their minds the moment she ran away from her marriage with Mikhail Vasiliev. 

She prayed they had forgotten. If it was ever discovered that Hermione was the granddaughter of Viktoriya Dolohova, the girl’s life would go to shite. Not only was Hermione close to the Russian throne, but she also had powerful and well-connected friends. Hermione would be a strong asset, and the tsar would stop at nothing to get her under his control. The Dolohovs had attempted to form bridges in Magical Britain for many years, and Hermione could provide the perfect opportunity to do so. Her close friendship with Harry Potter would provide a clear avenue for the tsar to exploit, and Victoria had no desire to learn what sort of plans the tsar could concoct with that type of power.  

Cursing softly, Victoria continued to prepare the soup. She would be beside herself if anything untoward happened to Hermione, and nothing, not even the threat of execution, would stop her from protecting her granddaughter.


	16. Operation Sticky Socks

# 

_ Quidditch Pitch _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 January 1994 _

 

“Alright team,” Marcus Flint began, “as you should be well aware of, we’re facing off against Ravenclaw next weekend. Their line up is pretty similar to two years ago, although they have a new Beater, Jacob Marchbanks, and a new Chaser, Vesper Dearborn. Those two shouldn’t be a problem; however, their other Chasers and Keeper will. Roger Davies and Aoife Moran were both on Team Hogwarts last year, and I’ve seen Moran get hit with a Bludger and continue playing. She’s incredibly tough, and Davies has some of the best technical skills I’ve ever seen. Beaters, we’re going to want to try to take out Davies or Moran early in the game. Ravenclaw does have a few reserve players, but I have it on good authority that they’re fairly rubbish Quidditch players.”

“Who’s in the Ravenclaw Reserves?” Terence Higgs asked. 

“Sue Li, for Chaser; Morag MacDougal, for Chaser and Beater, and Phineas Blane for Seeker. Out of the three, MacDougal is halfway decent, but Li and Blane are awful.”

“Chang is a decent Seeker,” Harry piped up. “I played against her first year, but I don’t think she’ll be a problem.”

Flint nodded. “Good to hear. Now, back to Ravenclaw’s Keeper. Aedan Moran is a flying menace, and he only missed playing first string on Team Hogwarts because Oliver Wood is good enough to play for England. Me, Higgs, and Malfoy will have our work cut out for us --  _ especially _ you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy had the temerity to look offended.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” Flint said coldly. “I’ve been doing my best to give you the benefit of the doubt, but the fact of the matter is that you’re the weakest link among the Chasers. Vane and Runcorn have been working hard all season, and if you don’t shape up, I’ll put one of them in.”

“My father --”

Flint glared at Malfoy. “Your father made it quite clear to me that you were to be given a spot on the team granted that you don’t bollux it up for everyone else.”

Malfoy swallowed, and thankfully shut up, allowing Flint to finish previewing the match. Flint even complimented Ron on how well he played during the Hufflepuff game, but warned him that the Ravenclaw Chasers would prove to be a far larger challenge. 

Flint quickly wrapped up the team meeting, then sent them on their way to breakfast. Ron fell into step next to Harry and Millie. 

“So, what did you think of the Runes translation?” Ron asked. 

Millie and Harry groaned simultaneously. 

“Ron, you’re going to spoil my appetite,” Harry complained. “You know I was up late last night trying to finish the homework.”

“It was pretty difficult,” Millie agreed, “but Hermione, Lily, and I all worked on it together, so it wasn’t so bad.” 

“See, I told you it was fine to work in groups!” 

Ron shrugged. “You always get distracted.”

“I’m busy concocting cunning plans of terror!”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, remember the latest one?”

“It’s not a bad idea, but you haven’t done anything with it yet.”

Harry glared at him. “I’m being  _ patient _ .”

“Why do I feel like I’m missing some key information?” Millie asked. 

“Because I keep my master plans of doom a secret.”

“Well…” Ron started.

Harry made an impatient gesture. “Don’t tell her! It has to be a surprise!”

“It won’t affect me, will it?”

“No.”

“Will it affect any of my roommates?”

“No. Well, I guess if you count supreme humour as an effect…” 

“Haha, very funny.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

They reached the door to the Entrance Hall, and Ron was spared from hearing anymore  banter about Harry’s latest scheme to prank Malfoy. To be fair, it was the plan with the most promise so far, but Ron wasn’t sure if they could actually pull it off. 

They parted ways at the Slytherin table as Millie joined Hermione and Lily, and Ron and Harry sat with Theo. Breakfast passed by in a blur, and soon they were off to Runes, which was followed by Potions and Herbology. They had a bit of a pause for lunch, then they had Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was a busy day, and it was Ron’s own fault because he decided to take three elective classes instead of the two minimum. 

By the end of the day Ron was ready to flop onto his four-poster bed, but he had a good number of Arithmancy equations to solve before class the next day. Luckily for him, Arithmancy was quite simple after working for Gringotts. Thirty minutes later found Ron screwing the lid back onto his ink pot and rolling up his homework scroll. He stretched, thinking about all the homework he had left when Harry and Theo walked in. Harry closed the door behind them, and Ron raised an eyebrow in surprise. Harry glanced around furtively. 

“Ron, you’re the only one in here, right?”

“Yes.”

Harry nodded once. “Good. We’re a go on the prank, but we need someone to keep an eye on Malfoy and make sure he stays in the common room. Blaise and Theo are going to charm the socks that are in their room, and I’m going to hit Malfoy with the sticky sock jinx while he’s distracted.”

“What if he notices you?”

“Well...I guess you could distract him if he isn’t already busy prancing around.” 

“Has Malfoy given up on joining the Slytherin Chess Society yet?” Theo asked. 

“Of course not.” 

“You could just stage some conversation with Urquhart or Patil about who’s going to replace Julius Fudge next year,” Theo suggested. “Malfoy will get his knickers in a twist that he isn’t the number one suggestion.” 

Ron snickered. “Or I could start talking politics with pretty much anyone. Honestly, it’s embarrassingly easy to get Malfoy started on a tirade.” 

Harry clasped his hands together. “Alright, that sounds good. Ron, we’ll need at least fifteen minutes of distracted Malfoy. Sound good?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright, let’s go.” 

Harry and Theo left the dorm room, and Ron made his way down to the Slytherin  common room. As it turned out, Ron didn’t even need to distract Malfoy, as the blond was too busy making goo-goo eyes at his girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. Ron resisted the urge to barf. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to date Parkinson. Not only was she annoying and had the personality of a Venomous Tentacula, but she also looked like a crup. 

Ron monitored the nauseating scene until he saw Harry sneak out of the stairwell. Harry crouched behind a chesterfield, carefully pointed his wand at Malfoy, and whispered a spell. Ron couldn’t hear what Harry said, but Malfoy’s loud yelp guaranteed it worked. 

Ron stifled a grin. Watching Malfoy run around in circles trying to unstick his socks from his shoes would be a moment to remember, and listening to him find out what happened to his socks in his room would be priceless.

* * *

 

_ Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 1 February 1994 _

 

“I still can’t believe it worked so well,” Harry said. 

Ron chuckled. Draco’s scream of anger upon finding his Gryffindor-colored tap-dancing socks had more than exceeded his expectations. “Did you hear what Professor Snape said to him?”

Harry grinned widely. “Oh did I ever.” Harry adopted a serious expression. “‘Malfoy, I cannot blame whoever transformed your footwear into something that more appropriately reflects your personality. You have been warned twice this year to keep your belongings out of other students’ personal spaces, and clearly you have not heeded the rules. Five points from Slytherin.’”

Ron affected a Professor Snape voice. “And yet, I find myself disinclined to punish the entire House for the misdeeds of one, and the spellwork nearly satisfactory. Ten points to Slytherin for ingenuity.” 

Harry doubled over with laughter. “Oh, I wish I could have seen his face!” 

“For once, Theo and Blaise really lucked out!” 

It took them a couple minutes to stop laughing. 

“So, do you want to go down to visit Tilly with me after Care of Magical Creatures today?” Harry asked.

Ron blinked. He’d done a pretty good job of forgetting about the massive basilisk in the bowels of Hogwarts, and he had no desire to visit it anytime soon. Harry claimed the snake was friendly, and had no intention of eating anyone, but Ron didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out if it was telling the truth. 

“Er, no thanks.” 

“Aww, come on! It’ll be fun!” 

“You can have fun...by yourself. Besides, I can’t speak to it.”

“To her,” Harry corrected. 

“To her,” Ron amended. 

“I suppose that’s true, but I could try to teach you.”

“Uh, I don’t know if that’s possible.” 

“There’s only one way to find out…”

“What if I’d rather not find out?”

“You should at least try to learn the basics. Then you’d be able to get into the library  whenever you wanted to.” 

Ron thought for a moment. Harry was making a rather good point. “Okay, I will try to learn at least some things,” he allowed, “but not today,” he quickly qualified. “I have to finish my applications for summer jobs, and Hermione would kill us if you started teaching Parseltongue without her.” 

“That’s fair. What summer jobs are you applying to?” 

“Eh, just some low-level stuff at Gringotts.” 

“That’s pretty cool.” 

“Meh, most wizards wouldn’t want these kinds of jobs because they’re too boring.” 

“Their loss, your gain.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be bored out of my skull.What are you going to do over the summer?”

“I have to stay with my stupid Muggle relatives for a bit,” Harry said, making a face. “But then I get to stay the rest of the summer with Sirius in London, and I think I’m going to Quidditch camp again, which will be fun.” 

Ron sighed. “I’m jealous. I wish I could go to Quidditch camp.”

“You should!”

“I have to work.”

“You could a take a week off work.”

“It’s too expensive.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Ron stared off into space, feeling awkward. 

“Would they have scholarships for that?” Harry asked suddenly. “I remember Hermione was nattering on about some summer camp she was planning on going to. Apparently they offered her a special scholarship because she’s so smart.”

“Really? What camp?”

“I don’t remember, but it’s worth it to ask. Maybe Madam Hooch would know something.” 

“Huh. Maybe.”

“And you could always write a letter to the camp coordinator. Wasn’t one of your brothers really good at Quidditch?”

“Yeah, Charlie was good enough to play for England, but he decided to become a dragon

keeper. What’s that got to do with anything, though?” 

“You can play up the brother-to-Charlie angle in your letter. If he was really that good, they should be jumping at the opportunity to train you, too. Plus, Fred and George did really well on Team Hogwarts.” 

Ron had never thought of it that way. “You know, that’s a really good point.” 

“Eh, I do that a lot with the Boy-Who-Lived thing,” Harry said nonchalantly. “The Chudley Cannons gave me more free tickets, by the way. Apparently having me around is good for their public image. Anyhow, do you like Pride of Portree? They sent me tickets, too, along with VIP passes. Would you want to go?”

“Of course!”

“The Holyhead Harpies sent me tickets, too. I might need a secretary to handle all this stupid fan mail.”

Ron goggled. “Ginny will kill me if I go to a Harpies game without her.”

Harry shrugged. “They sent me six tickets, and I could definitely ask for more. She can

come as well. She can even bring her friends, if she wants. That might be too annoying though.”

“Wow, that’d be...amazing.”

“I didn’t ask to be famous. I don’t even remember what I did. It’s only fair that I share the benefits.” 

“Well, I’m very grateful that you do.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Say, should we invite Hermione to a Quidditch game?” Harry asked innocently.

“By Merlin, she’d hate it!”

They collapsed once again into laughter, imagining Hermione furiously reading a book in  the middle of the VIP box. 


	17. A Sirius Engagement

# 

_ The Three Broomsticks _

_ Hogsmeade, Scotland _

_ 5 February 1994 _

 

Harry’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “No way!”

Sirius grinned. “Yes.”

Harry stared at his godfather, completely dumbfounded. “How?” 

Sirius chuckled. “Very carefully.” 

“Well, duh. How’d you actually make the map?” Harry asked, mind spinning. He’d be able to pull off so many pranks with a map like that. 

Sirius scratched his head thoughtfully. “It was mostly Charms work, and to be honest, I don’t think we could have managed it without Remus. He was an absolute whiz at Charms, and the most organized out of all of us. Your father and I weren’t bad at Charms per say, but we didn’t quite have Remus’ natural talent. We ended up doing most of the grunt work, and Remus did all the fine details. He’s terribly clever, you know.” 

“I know. Did I tell you about how we pranked Malfoy?” Harry asked, map temporarily forgotten. 

“No, tell me all about it!” 

Harry grinned widely, and proceeded to relate the entire saga. If he embellished a few details to make the story better, Sirius was left none the wiser. 

“And then,” Harry continued, “our Head of House didn’t even care! He’s fairly hard to read, but I’m pretty sure he thought it was funny. We even got house points for it! Theo said that Malfoy was stinking mad because he thought Snape would back him up, but Snape actually took points away from Malfoy before giving points to us!”

Across the table, Sirius froze. Harry looked at him quizzically. “What?”

“Snape,” Sirius said quietly. “Not Severus Snape?”

“Well, it’s technically Severus Prince now,” Harry amended. “But I usually forget and call him Snape. Why?”

Sirius’ face began to turn a funny color, and he choked out something incomprehensible. 

“Sorry?”

“You mean  _ Snivellus _ is your Head of House?”

Harry stared at him. “What?”

“Er, Snape, I mean. He’s your bloody Head of House?”

Harry felt very confused. Sirius clearly had some sort of issue with Professor Prince, and

Harry had no idea why. “Yes...he’s been the head of Slytherin for quite some time now…” 

Sirius swore, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, trying to look anywhere but at his godfather. 

“I can’t fucking believe it!” 

Harry cringed. 

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “Dumbledore’s got to be bloody well off his rocker.

Me, in Azkaban for almost thirteen years, and Snively teaching school. What the hell is wrong with this place?” 

People were beginning to stare, and Harry discreetly cast a Silencing Charm. Meanwhile, Sirius looked like he was about to have a conniption. 

“I can’t believe Remus didn’t tell me about this!” Sirius ranted. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind when I see him next!” 

Harry gaped, aghast. His mind reeled, desperately trying to come up with a plan. Sirius clearly was somewhere else mentally, and showed no signs of slowing down.

“I’ve have a mind to owl Dumbledore for letting that bastard teach children!”

Harry closed his mouth, and his eyes hardened. “I think he’s a pretty good professor,” he said coldly.

Sirius paused mid-rant and stared.

“I’ve only had one class with him first year, but he knows the material really well and he’s fair.”

Sirius’ jaw dropped. 

“He’s also a good Head of House. He doesn’t show it openly, but anyone with eyes and a brain can tell that he genuinely cares about us Slytherins.” Harry stuck his chin out defiantly. “I don’t know what your problem is with Professor Prince, but I’d really prefer if we could talk about something else.”    
Sirius looked confused. “Wait, Professor _Prince_?”

“Yes. Didn’t you listen to anything I said?” 

“As in Severus Prince?”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes.”

“I know him!”

“Uh huh.”

“From the Wizengamot! Bloody buggering hell! How in the name of Merlin did he manage that?”

“His grandfather blood-adopted him, far as I know.”

Sirius scoffed. “Fuck that.”

“What?”

“There’s no way!”

“Er, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what happened.”  

Sirius looked floored. “It can’t be.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I’ve seen Lord Prince!”

Harry felt more flummoxed than ever. “So?” 

“He doesn’t have greasy hair!” 

“Er,  _ what? _ ” 

“And he looks professional! And he makes good contributions to debate!”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” 

Sirius shook his head as if to clear it. “Severus Prince can’t be Snivellus. It’s simply not possible.”

Harry sighed. “Again, what are you talking about?” 

“Sniv --  _ Snape _ \-- was a greasy little slimeball. Lord Prince is nothing like that.”

“...they’re the same person.” 

“Can’t be.”

“Well, they are. If you don’t believe me, look it up in the  _ Daily Prophet _ , or ask pretty much anyone. How’d you know Snape, anyway?”

“We went to school with him -- me, your dad, and Remus. We absolutely hated him.”

“Why?”

“He was gross, and up to his eyeballs in the Dark Arts, even as a first year. I could never understand why your mum was friends with him.” 

Harry took a moment to digest that bit of information. He’d known since the summer after first year that Snape had known his mum, but he hadn’t realized they’d been friends in Hogwarts. “Did you ever prank him?” Harry asked, feeling like he wouldn’t like the answer.

Sirius’ enthusiastic nod only served to confirm Harry’s suspicions. “Oh, did we ever. Some of our best pranks were against him. It actually was one of our pranks that convinced your mum to stop being friends with Snively and notice your dad.”

Harry feigned interest. “What did you do?”

“Well, Snape created this pair of spells,  _ Levicorpus  _ and  _ Libracorpus _ .  _ Levicorpus _ would flip a person upside down and dangle them by their ankle, and  _ Libracorpus _ would release them. Snape wasn’t nearly as sneaky about using his spells as he thought he was, and between the four of us we were able to figure out how his spell worked and how to use it.

“We pranked him right after O.W.L.s. I can remember it like it was yesterday -- it was an incredibly hot day, and we’d just finished the DADA exam, which was the last exam we had. I still can’t believe the exam staff was able to read anything that Snively wrote since his greasy hair was touching the parchment the whole time. Anyway, me, James, Remus, and...Peter were all down by the lake when Snivellus showed up. He started getting mouthy with us, so, like good gentlemen, we cleaned his mouth out for him. Scourgify is a useful spell, you know.”

Harry was forcefully reminded of Dudley and his gang.

“Eventually he tried to hex us, so we used his own spell on him. Your mum wasn’t too happy about that. Lily was a bit of a spoilsport back then. We were just bored, and Snivellus was around. Anyway, she told us to cut it out, and actually defended Snivellus. He wasn’t too pleased, though, and called her the M-word. As you can imagine, that was the end of their friendship.”

Harry didn’t want to know what happened next.

“His robes had flipped over his head...and then we took off his trousers.” Sirius smiled, clearly pleased with the prank. 

Harry didn’t find it funny in the slightest. 

“My father did this?” he asked quietly. 

Sirius nodded enthusiastically.

“And Professor Lupin?”

“Eh, he didn’t help, but he watched.”

“And...Peter?”

“He watched, too,” Sirius spat. “Nasty bugger always liked to watch.” 

Harry felt sick to his stomach. “So it was at least two against one.”

“Yeah. So? It was just Snivellus.”

_ It’s just the Freak, Mum. _ Harry could remember Dudley’s whine, and the pinched expression on Aunt Petunia’s face as she craned her neck around, searching for nosy neighbors.  _ Just not where others can see, popkin. _

Shame washed over Harry. His father had been no better than Dudley and his gang. Harry swallowed. “Let’s talk about something else.”  

Sirius accepted the change in conversation with surprisingly good grace. “Did I tell you that I got engaged?” 

“What!? No!”

“Ah. I must have forgotten to mention it to you.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Well, I am. Engaged, I mean.”

“To who?”

Sirius smiled dreamily. “Maura Zabini.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped, and suddenly things made a lot more sense. Sirius’ seemingly random comments to him in letters, and some of the meaningful looks Blaise had been sending him took on a new meaning. Harry’s mind whizzed into overdrive. 

“To Maura Zabini,” Harry repeated intelligently.

Sirius nodded happily. “Exactly.”

Harry winced internally. “How well do you know her?”

“We’ve been dating for several months now.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out a tactful way to ask if Sirius knew his fiancée was a serial killer. “Has she dated anyone before?” Harry asked, going for the innocent approach.

“Yeah, I mean, she’s your yearmate Blaise’s mum. Didn’t I mention that in my letter to you?”

“Mm hmm. I think Blaise said he’d had five or six stepdads,” Harry hedged. He couldn’t remember which marriage Blaise had been from, but he knew for certain it was one of the earlier ones.

Sirius scratched his head. “Oh, right. I think she did say that she’d been married a couple times before.”

“Don’t you think that’s worrisome?”

Sirius grinned lopsidedly. “I don’t think much around her, Harry. She’s a very beautiful woman, and I usually get distracted. -- By her intellect. Obviously by her intellect.” 

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “You might want to look into that.” 

“Eh, I’m sure it will work out fine. Not many witches want to be around a former Azkaban prisoner, and Maura is a hot ticket.” 

Harry resisted the urge to forcibly smash his head against the table. 

“You don’t need to worry, I’ve got it all under control.”

Harry wondered if Sirius had left half his brain behind in Azkaban. 

“Anyway, enough talk about me, are there any special ladies in your life?”

Harry blanched. “No!”

“That was a quick response.”

“So?”

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. “Seems like you could be hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You know you could tell me anything, right?”

“I know.” 

“You sure?”

Harry shuffled his feet “ _ Yes _ .”

“And you would tell me if something was going on?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes.” 

“Good. So, I heard you have a big Quidditch match coming up this weekend. How’re you feeling about it.”

Harry grinned, relieved the conversation had moved away from love interests. “Well,” he began, “the match is against Ravenclaw, and while they aren’t bad, I think we’ll win…”

* * *

 

_ Undisclosed Location, United Kingdom _

 

It’s dark in the room, but the moon provides just enough light to reflect off the pale face of the seated Thing. His red eyes shine dimly in the gloom, and his entire being radiates a certain malevolence. 

“And the progress, Wormtail?” 

The kneeling man shuddered. “My lord. We are making improvements. We have located several of the --”

The Thing twitched his wand, and the man fell silent. “I am not pleased with vague promises of improvements. I have warned you about this many times before. Have you not learned your lesson?”

The man sputtered, then spoke again. “My lord. We are  _ trying _ , but the potion is complicated!”

“Trying is lying, you blithering idiot! I need results, effective immediately.” 

“I -- we need more expertise! Someone with more than an N.E.W.T in Potions! Lord Gaunt, perhaps, could help…”

“Don’t be fool. Gaunt has more important tasks to focus on, and besides, I do not have a R.A.T in Potions.” 

“I --”

“Figure it out. If you fail to do so, I will not hesitate to turn you over to the authorities. You will benefit our cause more by rotting in Azkaban than bumbling around in a Potions laboratory. This should be sufficient motivation to finish the project, mm?”  
“My lord --”

“ _ Do not  _  question my judgement, or I will see that you regret it. Is that understood?”

The man bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.” 

“Just one more thing, Wormtail, before you depart…”

The man turned around, poised on the threshold of the door. 

“ _ Crucio _ .” 

 


	18. Hidden Meanings

# 

_ Disused Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizarding, Scotland _

_ 7 February 1994 _

 

“Again, but faster.” 

Hermione blinked sweat out of her eyes, stubbornly pushed her hair back, and brandished her wand. “ _ Oppugno! _ ”

The paper shreds flopped into place, but refused to attack. 

“Arghhhhhh!” 

“You are making progress, you know,” Aria noted. 

“I’m not making progress fast enough,” Hermione said irritably. 

“...this is a fifth year spell.” 

“I know.”

“And you’re a third year.”

Hermione jutted out her chin. “And why does that matter?”

“I’m not trying to offend you, I’m just saying it’s tricky.” 

“Oh. Er, right.” 

“You’ve improved by leaps and bounds, and you know I’m not just saying that to be nice.” 

“I know. I just, I dunno, feel so worried sometimes.” Hermione plunked herself down on an abandoned chair. “It doesn’t make sense, but I just do.” 

Aria sat down beside her. “We all have our moments.”

“Yeah, but this is…” Hermione gestured vaguely with her hands, “more than that.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I...don’t know how to say it.” 

“I’m not going to judge you.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “It’s so stupid, now that I think of it.” 

“I’m sure it isn’t stupid.”

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“I promise.”

“It’s...the whole muggleborn thing.” Hermione swallowed, then words tumbled out. “I guess it’s always been in the back of mind since I got here, but the whole...thing just made me worry more. I thought that everything would be okay once I got to Hogwarts because, you know, we’ve all got magic here, but then there’s the blood purity thing and I’m sitting here wondering if I can ever fit in. I thought if I was the best in the class, it’d be okay, and I’m good friends with Lily and Millie but Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey still look down their noses at me. 

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if I was in one of the other Houses. Gryffindor doesn’t seem to care much about blood purity, Hufflepuff likes everyone, and Ravenclaw would at least appreciate my intelligence. But then that wouldn’t fix everything, because there’d still be stuff I didn’t know. I didn’t realize how far behind I was until the Wizarding Studies class this year, and I wish the primary schools had existed back when I was young.” Hermione sighed. “I just wish I had been born a pureblood.” 

Aria made an odd noise in the back of her throat. 

“What?”

“Being a pureblood really isn’t as great as you think,” Aria said carefully. 

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You get to grow up with magic, and a

bunch bigoted idiots aren’t going to randomly attack you because they decided you got too smart.” 

Aria looked away. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

“Purebloods...at least those politically involved, have greater problems. It’s especially dependent on who you’re related to.” 

Hermione thought hard, trying to remember the family trees she’d studied with Millie and Lily. 

“As a member of a family sitting on the House of Lords, I am obligated to marry well and have a respectable career. My father is quite strict, and my mother’s side of the family is even more so. I really have little choice over who I end up with, although I will at least be able to study what I like. My brother, Theo, has it worse. Not only must he take the Nott Lordship one day, but he also must marry a suitably bred witch.” 

Hermione made a face. 

“That’s not even the worst of it. Do you know Occlumency?”

Hermione blinked at the non sequitur. “What?”

“Occlumency. Do you know it?” Aria’s eyes contained a certain fervor. 

“No. What is it?”

Aria sighed, and Hermione got the impression she was quite disappointed. “To put it as simply as possible, it’s a branch of psychic magic focusing on protecting your mind. Most importantly, it serves as a counter to Legilimency, which allows a wizard to easily perceive another wizard’s thoughts and emotions.”

Hermione paled. “So Legilimency is like mind-reading, then?”

“Mind-reading…” Aria puzzled over the unfamiliar phrase. “Legilimency isn’t like reading a book, if that’s what you mean. It’s more about being able to sense everything about someone’s memory.” 

Hermione bit her lip. “Is it common?”

“Not particularly, but those who can use it tend to have bad intentions.” 

“How can I learn it?” 

“There are some books on it, but I think most of them are in the Restricted Section.  Mind magic isn’t a subject you want to mess with on your own. I know a decent amount of Occlumency, and I can teach you the basics, but if you really want to learn it you’ll have to find a tutor.” 

“Really? Can you?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t within my capabilities. For now, however, I will have to be careful with what I say directly to you. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just can’t let the information fall into the wrong hands.”

Hermione felt herself turn red, and she silently promised to work as hard as possible on Occlumency. 

“Going back to what I was speaking of earlier, about pureblood women…” Aria fixed Hermione with a piercing stare. “You know that Theo and Diana are my half-siblings, right?”

Hermione nodded.

“My mother was Anastasiya Dolohova before she married, a cousin to the current tsar. She died in childbirth with my sister Helena, who was stillborn. Theo and Diana’s mother was Rhea Malfoy, the last of the Black Heights Malfoys. She died in childbirth as well, and Diana was lucky to survive.” Aria’s eyes blazed. “Given the standards of health in Wizarding Britain, do you really think this was a coincidence?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, and Aria silenced her with a gesture. 

“Don’t answer, just think.”

Hermione swallowed hard. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

“I understand that being a muggleborn is hard, and that you’ve had a rough time of it. Just...be careful what you wish for, alright?”

Hermione sighed. “Okay.”

“Let’s go back to dueling and see if you can make any more progress on the  _ Oppugno _ jinx. We’ll break it down -- how about you start off with the wand movement?”

Hermione stood, and brandished her wand, sweeping it through the clockwise semicircle and the diagonal jab. 

“Good, good, make the diagonal at the end more aggressive.” 

Hermione made the movement several times before Aria was satisfied. 

“Excellent, you can add in the incantation now. Remember that the ‘op’ part should be said during the first section of the wand movement, and the ‘pugno’ should be said as you jab your wand diagonally.”

Hermione practiced a couple times, whispering the incantation to get the timing perfect. 

“Do you think you’re ready?”

Hermione nodded, and took up a position across from Aria. 

“ _ Oppugno! _ ” 

The paper rustled, but refused to move. Hermione groaned. 

“This is impossible!”

“Difficult, not impossible,” Aria corrected. “Your wand movements and incantation look right, you just need the right mindset. You need to focus not on making the paper fly at me, but making the paper an extension of yourself, and you yourself need to want to attack me.” 

Vividly, Hermione remembered her conversation with Professor Prince the year before when they learned shield charms. In order to properly cast a shield charm, you had to understand how it felt to be hurt, and from there establish a strong desire to protect yourself. Hermione had only needed to think about how vulnerable she’d felt in Ireland, so casting a shield charm was relatively easy for her. Her Head of House, of course, had no knowledge of the Irish witches, and had wondered if something was amiss in her home life. It’d taken some fast talking and a story about being bullied in primary school to convince him otherwise. She hadn’t told him the truth, but she hadn’t completely lied either. 

“Hermione?”

“Sorry, I was thinking. Give me a moment.” 

Hermione closed her eyes, picturing the scraps of paper. No, not paper. She had to think of them as part of her -- as little Hermione-hands. Hermione held the thought in her mind as she tried to summon up the desire to hurt Aria. It was quite difficult considering she held the older Slytherin in high regard. After several long moments, Hermione worked up enough frustration. She opened her eyes. 

“ _ Oppugno! _ ” 

The pieces of paper rose, and darted forward before dropping by Aria’s feet. A sour expression made its way across Hermione’s face. “I thought I had it that time!”

“You’re making really good progress. You’ve definitely got the idea down; you just don’t want hurt me badly enough.”

Hermione sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Let’s call it quits for today, huh? You’ve put in a lot of hard work.”

“Okay.” 

Hermione straightened her robes, forced her hair into a snug braid to hide its puffiness, and followed Aria out the door. The older witch extinguished the lights with a quiet  _ Nox _ , and started back towards the Slytherin common room.

“So,” Aria began, “I know summer is a long way off, but do you have any exciting plans?”

Hermione’s mind darted to the letter folded neatly in her lockbox. “Hopefully,” she hedged, “I’m still waiting on the details.”

“Ooh, that sounds interesting. What sort of details?”

“I’m not really supposed to talk about it, I don’t think.”

Aria raised an eyebrow, and Hermione quickly relented. 

“Just don’t tell anyone, alright? I think I could use some advice on it, actually. I got an owl a couple weeks ago saying I qualified for a scholarship to a summer camp because of my marks. I’d need to write a couple of essays to apply for it, but if I get the scholarship, I get to go to camp for free.”

“Really? Which camp is it?”

“You probably haven’t heard of it. It’s a new one, and it’s only for the muggleborn or muggle-raised.”

“Is it, by chance, the one sponsored by Lord Gaunt?”

Hermione looked at Aria in surprise. “Actually, it is. How did you know?”

“My father works closely with Lord Gaunt, and is privy to many of his plans. You said they offered you a scholarship?” 

“They said I was eligible for a scholarship because of my academic standing.” 

Aria nodded. “And when do you hear back from them?”

“Hopefully in the next two weeks. I haven’t told my parents about it yet. I figured it would be easier to convince them to let me go to camp for a fortnight if I had a full scholarship.” 

“That’s a fair point. Is it really so expensive?”

Hermione chuckled lightly. “No. Both my parents are dentists -- tooth healers,” she quickly clarified, “so we have plenty of money, but I’m an only child, and they miss me during the school year. The summer break is rather short and they wouldn’t be particularly happy to have me gone for a big chunk of it. On the other hand, I don’t think they’d deny me such a great opportunity.” 

“What about the camp interests you the most?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Experiencing the little parts of wizarding culture, I think. Being at Hogwarts is amazing, but it doesn’t show you all the details of daily life. For instance,” Hermione continued, warming to her theme, “what are typical hobbies, typical works of literature? Are there other sports besides Quidditch? I could go on forever, and I got to see how some things work when I visited Lily over the Yule holiday, but I keep finding more and more questions and each answer I get makes me think further.” 

They reached the Slytherin common room door. 

“Well, it seems like you’re quite excited about camp,” Aria said. “Should you go, I wish you the best of luck.  _ Aconite _ .”

The wall slid open, and Aria strode through, leaving Hermione deep in thought. There was something about the older girl’s parting words that sounded slightly off. Shrugging, Hermione followed Aria through the door, promising herself that she’d puzzle out the meaning later.


	19. Worries and Woes

# 

_ Office of Amelia Bones _

_ Ministry of Magic, London _

_ 9 February 1994 _

 

Amelia sipped her tea as she perused the invoice. The Auror Academy class had officially reached drop out week, and the initial group of seventeen witches and wizards had been weeded down to six candidates. It was unsurprising, and a higher retention rate than the previous year’s class. The Auror Academy was grueling, and those who were eliminated could seek jobs as Hit Wizards or in the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. 

Amelia read the notice again, looking for familiar names. Sedrick Moody was the grand-nephew of the (thankfully retired) Alastor Moody, and was clearly a chip off the old block. Mhairi Fergusson’s father held a seat on in the House of Commons, and Adrian Pucey had been a remarkable Quidditch player at Hogwarts. Amelia studied the other three names. Belle Chang sounded familiar, but the other two were unknown to her. Amelia mentally shrugged. If they made it through the Academy, she’d put faces to names. 

Amelia moved on to the next memo announcing that trainee Aurors Gawain, Loi, and Tonks would be promoted to full Auror status on Friday. Amelia made a note to bring coffee and biscuits to the office to commemorate their achievement. 

She continued to work through the ever growing list of invoices, and scarcely noticed the arrival of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . Amelia quickly decided that answering Ludo Bagman’s request for a meeting could wait, and spread the newspaper out before her. It was full of the usual drivel -- the Chudley Cannons were once again at the bottom of the league, and Rita Skeeter was filling Wizarding Britain’s minds with nonsense. Amelia skimmed the gossip section out of idle curiosity, then stopped short, staring at the page. 

Sirius Black and Maura Zabini were engaged, and had officially set a wedding date. 

Amelia read the article again, unable to believe her eyes. She’d heard the rumors, of course, but hadn’t believe that Black would be stupid enough to get involved with Zabini. The relationship had progressed quickly as well; the couple had been together for less than six months. It was quite disturbing, and Amelia’s mind turned to the repercussions in the Wizengamot. 

Black had attended infrequently thus far, but his policies leaned towards the Progressive party, although he eschewed anything publicly supported by Albus Dumbledore. As Chief Warlock of the House of Commons, Dumbledore technically didn’t hold any power in the House of Lords. However, his influence spread far beyond the House of Commons, and he was often featured on Wizarding Wireless talk shows or interviewed for the  _ Daily Prophet _ . Frankly, Amelia thought it was far too much power for one man, but there was little she could do about it. 

Rita Skeeter had published a series of anti-Dumbledore articles several months back that’d been surprisingly articulate and well-researched, but the gossip journalist hadn’t contributed anything new recently, which made Amelia think she’d either run out of material or bribed into silence. Neither option was particularly palatable, and Amelia turned her thoughts elsewards. The pile of memos was rather daunting, and Amelia quickly shuffled through them. 

“About damn time,” she muttered, pausing in the middle of the stack and extracting a single sheet of parchment. Amelia murmured several incantations before allowing a single drop of her blood to fall onto the sheet. Writing blossomed into existence, and a feeling of horror grew with each word she read.  It’d been almost a month since she’d tasked Emmeline Vance to investigate the changes in the Irish ward scheme, but this was the first time she’d heard from the Auror. 

Amelia gently massaged her temples, then re-read the note. 

 

_ Arrived at the destination. I visited several ward stone locations, and can confirm that the ward scheme has changed. I could not ascertain why, but took the necessary measurements and owled them to our contact in the Unspeakables.  _

_ The locals still seem hostile towards Britain, and tension has increased between the covens. Both the Sayre Coven and the Morholt Coven have secluded themselves, which has not sat well with the Rowan, Quigley, and Quirke Covens. I sense a greater plot is afoot, and will work to determine what it is.  _

_ More disturbing than the tension between the covens was the residual magic found at the Tara Standing Stones. I did not venture through the gate to Ciorcal na cinn Ársa, but the entire gateway had the fetid stink of corrupt magic. It was somewhat stale, and I estimate the event in question took place two to four years ago. According to locals, the ritual circle has not been used since the event, but they would not elaborate on it.  _

_ My theory is that the corruption is related to the disappearance (read: possible death) of Deirdre, Rionach, and Bronagh Morholt. It is merely a supposition, and I will continue to investigate it. I have a hunch that the change in the wards connects both the seclusion of the Sayres and the Morholts and the corruption of Ciorcal na cinn Ársa. _

 

_ Signed: EV _

 

Amelia swore. The situation in Ireland was decidedly worse than she had initially thought. When she’d first received Phillip Rivers’ letter about the ward scheme, she’d foolishly assumed it was another sign of Irish aggression. Unfortunately, it was all too clear that something more sinister was afoot. Either that, or it was a series of coincidences, and Amelia Bones did not believe in coincidences. 

Grimacing, she took a sip of her coffee in the vain hope that the bitter beverage would enlighten her. It did not, and Amelia sighed, feeling a headache building. Suddenly, her workday seemed more daunting. With a flick of her wand, Amelia summoned a fresh quill. She had an incredibly important letter to owl to the Unspeakables, and, Merlin willing, she’d get the answers she needed. If she didn’t get the answers...

Amelia shuddered to think of the reasoning behind such an outcome, then set her jaw firmly. If the Unspeakables couldn’t answer her questions, she would have to pursue other avenues, even if it meant burying the hatchet and owling a witch she hadn’t spoken to for over twenty years.

* * *

 

_ Office of Albus Dumbledore _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 9 February 1994 _

Albus pushed his copy of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ away and studiously ignored it for a moment before steepling his fingers under his chin. He had regrets. He had many regrets, the most recent of which was Sirius Black. Twelve years ago, he’d been so certain. He’d firmly believed that Sirius Black had betrayed the Potters, and now he was made the fool.  Albus didn’t even blame himself, not this time. It wasn’t like with Gellert, where Albus was fully in control of his actions. The Potters made the fatal mistake themselves, and had they properly disseminated the details of their Secret Keeper, Sirius Black wouldn’t have rotted in Azkaban for twelve years. 

The entire Sirius Black situation put Albus on the back foot, and he didn’t like it in the slightest. It hadn’t been hard for Albus to suspect him. Sirius had been a charismatic lad with a penchant for taking pranks just a step too far. Given the Black family tendencies, the vicious components of the pranks easily were construed as sadism, and the betrayal of the Potters as another one of the Black falling for Tom’s promises. Albus had tried to apologize, but his owls went unanswered. 

Albus pursed his lips. Sirius’ lack of a response was understandable, after all, the young

man had unjustly spent twelve years in Azkaban. Albus also supported Bartemius Crouch’s decision to avoid a trial -- not that there was any written record of that.  If Sirius had been guilty, he would have easily gotten off on an Imperius defense or elsewise bribed the Wizengamot. Furthermore, Sirius would have had custody of Harry since a magical godfather took precedence over Muggle relatives. Under the best case scenario, Harry could have been raised as some sort of twisted heir to Tom, and in the worst case, Sirius would have finished the job Tom started. 

Of course, all that logic was invalid now that Sirius was innocent, and Albus still had the problem of Harry. Even after all this time, Albus still wasn’t sure what to think of the boy. He’d been a bit nervous when Harry was sorted into Slytherin, but the lad had performed admirably against Quirrell. Harry’s Quidditch skills were outstanding, as was his sportsmanship. Albus knew that James would have been proud. 

Albus fiddled with the knickknacks on his desk. The shift in political dynamics once

Harry’s year came of age would most certainly be interesting. Both the Bones and the Longbottom seats were currently held by regents, and as such, Susan Bones and Neville Longbottom would take their respective places upon turning seventeen. Miss Bones’ politics were likely to be aligned with those of her aunt, but Albus imagined Mr. Longbottom would be more Progressive than his grandmother. William Weasley technically was serving as a regent as well for his brother Ronald, and Albus doubted their stances would be different. The Potter seat, of course, would be inactive until Harry turned seventeen. Albus had been certain the boy would be a Progressive, but now he feared Harry would be closer to a Neutral-Traditionalist. 

Even so, it was unfortunate that Harry wouldn’t be able to inherit the Black seat. After a fiasco in the seventeenth century, the Blacks rewrote their inheritance laws to prevent blood-adopted individuals from holding the seat. If Sirius failed to conceive an heir with -- horror among horrors -- Maura Zabini, then the Black lordship would pass to Draco Malfoy. 

Albus shuddered to think of the possibility, and turned his mind away from the thought. He had more important issues to worry about, including ensuring that the next generation of Wizengamot Lords and Ladies supported the issues Albus wanted.

* * *

 

_ Office of Minerva McGonagall _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 9 February 1994 _

 

Remus raised his hand to knock, then withdrew it again. He stared at his shoes for a solid second, swallowed, and knocked, desperately trying not to feel like a silly schoolboy. 

“Come in.” 

He entered the office. 

“Good afternoon, Remus. I wasn’t expecting you.” 

Remus figited awkwardly, feeling rather like he’d started out on the wrong foot. “Is it alright if I speak with you for a moment? I know it’s during your office hours, so if students need help I can come back later…” 

Professor McGonagall -- no,  _ Minerva _ \-- waved his concerns away. “Nonsense. Something is clearly bothering you. Take a seat.”

Remus sat in the proffered chair, feeling more like a student by the second.

“Biscuit?” Minerva asked, extending a tartan tin. 

“No thanks.” 

Minerva raised an eyebrow. “No to chocolate biscuit? Are you the same Remus Lupin?” 

“Er…”

“Take one.” 

Remus took a biscuit but didn’t eat it. 

Minerva eyed him shrewdly. “Well?”

“There’s not a delicate way to say it.” 

Minerva simply looked at him. 

Remus sighed. “It’s about Sirius. I’ve kept my mouth shut for a while hoping he’d come to his senses, but he’s being as pigheaded as he ever was.  I -- pardon my French -- can’t believe he’s so fucking  _ stupid _ . Maura Zabini? Of all people, Maura Zabini? By Merlin,” Remus continued, running a hand through his hair, “he’s still mentally twenty-one, albeit a bit regressed because of Azkaban. I just can’t get through to him.” 

“I had similar thoughts,” Minerva began, “But I fear I would have even less luck than you speaking to him. As much as I want to call him into my office for a stern chat, it truly is no longer my place to do so.”

Remus exhaled in a puff of frustration. “If not us, who? If not now, when?”

Minerva looked at him in slight confusion.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Remus clarified hastily. “But there must be something we can do. I can’t let him die for marrying the wrong witch.” 

“Indeed...are you still in touch with any of your acquaintances from Hogwarts?”

“A few.” 

“Owl any of your mutual acquaintances with Mr. Black as soon as possible. Between all of us, we ought to be able to come up with a solution.” 

Remus nodded. “Of course.”

 


	20. Plots and Plans

# 

 

_ Ministry of Magic _

_ London, England _

_ 21 March 1994 _

 

“You make a very convincing case,” Lucius said smoothly. “House Runcorn will certainly have my support in its Ascension bid.” 

The dark haired man smiled. “Thank you, Lucius. Your backing is greatly appreciated. If I may be so bold as to ask, when do you believe the Wizengamot will begin to the debate the matter?” 

Lucius eyed Albert Runcorn thoughtfully. He remembered the other man well from their Hogwarts years. Albert had also been a Slytherin, two years younger than Lucius, with a talent for Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’d quickly propelled himself into work at the Ministry, eventually becoming the Director of Magical Security. On the other hand, Albert’s younger brother, Lionel, had been even more talented and gone on to teach Dueling and Ghoul Studies at Hogwarts. Lionel was unmarried, but Albert had two children, both in Slytherin. 

While House Runcorn was not officially a member of British Wizarding nobility, they possessed more material wealth than the Honorable House of Urquhart or the Noble House of Burke. Furthermore, and much more importantly, the Runcorns had the appropriate political views: Neutral-Traditionalist enough to not offend anyone, yet Traditionalist enough to support some of Lucius’ more  _ daring _ projects. 

Albert was still looking at him expectantly. Lucius took a moment to marshall his thoughts. “Ideally, I would like to see an Ascension vote before Yule,” he began. “Unfortunately, I do not believe that will be likely due the selection process. The Wizengamot is rather divided between Rookwood and Marchbanks, and the ever odious Umbridges have attempted renew their claim at Ascension. Rajan Patil has shown restraint for once, likely at the request of his son, but Amos Diggory once again suffers from delusions. 

“In short, I would expect serious debates to take place before Yule, but I rather doubt a vote would occur prior to Imbolc.” 

Albert nodded. “Once again, your insight is greatly appreciated.” 

Lucius stood to leave. “Think nothing of it.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you in my capacity as Director of Magical Security, just send word.” 

Lucius smiled. “Naturally. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

“Likewise.”

Lucius strolled out of the office. He had a lunch reservation at a new and rather posh Indian restaurant in the nicer part of Sydewaize Alley, however, there was half an hour before his reservation, and with any luck… 

“Lord Malfoy! Lucius!”

He turned around to see a portly man in an unfortunate set of pinstriped robes bustling towards him and quickly plastered a smile onto his face. 

“Cornelius! What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I was wondering if I could briefly have a word in my office,” the Minister said, slightly out of breath.

Lucius felt embarrassed for the man. “Of course.” 

Cornelius hurried back down the corridor, and Lucius followed, silently thanking the gods that be that the Minister did not wear his lime-green bowler hat indoors. Cornelius ushered Lucius into his office and shut the door. 

“Take a seat, take a seat. Would you care for tea?” 

“No, thank you.” 

Cornelius appeared slightly put out, and settled himself behind the mahogany desk. “So,” he began eloquently, “there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you. Something I want your expertise on.  The preliminary idea has been set in place, but the fine details need to be ironed out, and you know how Ludo Bagman gets.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. 

“At any rate,” Cornelius continued to ramble, “I was thinking you could be just the wizard to provide expertise, given your background, and such.”

“Indeed,” Lucius said blandly. He had several ideas as to what Cornelius was speaking of, but it was difficult to be certain. “Now, which event are you alluding to?”  

“Ah, didn’t I mention it?” Cornelius fumbled. “The, er, Triwizard Tournament.” 

Lucius internally rolled his eyes to high heaven. “And on which particular matter would you like my expertise? The structure of the event should be clear, yes?” 

“What? No, that’s not what I meant at all...of course we know the structure of the tournament. That’s been decided already, and the negotiations with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were absolutely  _ tedious _ . What I wanted your opinion on was several proposed expansions to the tournament…” 

Lucius’ eyebrow rose steadily higher as Cornelius explained the ideas. Surprisingly, they were not without merit, albeit fairly unorthodox. 

“And has an agreement officially been reached about the students’ housing and schooling?” Lucius asked. 

Cornelius shrugged. “To my knowledge, both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang plan on providing their own housing facilities as well as professors.”

“Hm. If I may make a suggestion…”

“Please do.”

“Why not treat the visiting students to the full Hogwarts experience? My understanding is that there will not be large quantities of them, and Merlin knows Hogwarts can easily house up to four times its current capacity. Perhaps Beauxbatons and Durmstrang could be convinced to host visiting students from Hogwarts during the next academic year.” 

Cornelius frowned. “Durmstrang…”

“Durmstrang would require some convincing. I, fortunately, am personally acquainted with Igor Karkaroff.” 

“Ah.” 

“Indeed.” Lucius checked his pocket watch. “If you will excuse me, I have a lunch reservation.” 

“Of course, of course. I will pass on your suggestions and send you an owl regarding the outcome.”

Lucius nodded. “Excellent. Should any difficulties arise with Beauxbatons, I have connections there as well. A pleasure meeting with you, Minister.’ 

“Thank you.” 

With that, Lucius turned on his heel and exited the office, thoughts on his cousin Dorian

rather than lunch. Dorian’s two sons, Raphaёl and Baptiste, were quite mature and poised for their age. Perhaps Draco could benefit from spending time with his cousins, especially since the summer promised to be rather busy for Lucius and Narcissa.

* * *

 

_ Salazar Slytherin’s Library _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 25 March 1994 _

 

“Nope, that’s still just hissing.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to pull her hair out. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive.”

“Argh!” 

“Sorry?” 

“Hermione, if it helps, I’m having a tough time too.”

Hermione glared at Ron. “Not helping.” 

“Look,” Harry said, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. Parseltongue just sounds like English to me, so I can’t really correct your pronunciation.” 

“I just wish I knew if I was getting better or not. We’ve practiced four times already and I don’t know if I’ve improved. Do we even know if Parseltongue can be taught?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know. There aren’t any books in the school library about Parseltongue. Maybe there’s some in the Restricted Section, but I can’t really go up to a professor and ask for a pass.” 

Ron sighed. “Fair enough. Do we want to continue trying this, then? It’d be great if me and Hermione could have access to the library and meeting room whenever we want, but if it’s impossible, why bother continuing? We hardly have time to practice anyway, between Quidditch, chess, and homework.” 

Hermione groaned. “Don’t remind me of the pile of Arithmancy I have to do.”

“I have to do that plus the Runes homework.” 

“Ouch.” 

“I think you two should keep working on it, at least for today,” Harry said. “If nothing happens, nothing happens, and we can make this less of a priority. I know Ron and I won’t have a lot of time -- Flint’s gone absolutely mad over Quidditch practices.”

“Alright.”

“I was thinking,” Harry continued, “that it might help if you look at a snake, or at least a picture of one. I know that helped me at first, before I got in the habit of speaking Parseltongue with Tilly.” 

“Okay. So are we going to find a painting?”

Harry looked slightly mischievous.  “I could conjure one. They aren’t particularly good conversationalists, but that doesn’t particularly matter.” 

Hermione’s forehead wrinkled. “Just so long as it’s not poisonous.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “What, do you think I’m stupid?  _ Serpensortia! _ ” 

A small green snake with black dots shot out of the end of Harry’s wand, and he began hissing at it. After a moment, the snake hissed something back, and looked at Hermione and Ron expectantly. Hermione blanched. 

Harry caught her look. “She’s just a grass snake.”

“It’s  _ looking _ at us.”

“I did tell her you were trying to learn Parseltongue, and not to be offended,” Harry said mildly.   

“So, what do we do now?” Ron asked. 

Harry hissed. 

“And that means?”

“It means ‘hello’. I figured we could try practicing with a different word.” 

“Could you repeat the Parseltongue?”

Harry hissed again, and Hermione closed her eyes, trying to pick apart the sound. 

“Sssssthssssesss.”

“Nope, that was just hissing.”

“Sssthsssss.”

“Still hissing.”

“Argh! This is impossible!” Hermione felt like punching a wall.

Ron tried a couple times before giving Harry a shrug of defeat. “I don’t think this is going to work out, mate.” 

“C’mon…”

“Harry, it just might be impossible for people to learn Parseltongue.” 

Harry’s face sagged. “Just try a couple more times?”

“I --  _ fine _ .” 

Harry beamed, and Hermione exchanged a look with Ron. They both clearly thought it was futile. 

“Ron, you can go first.” 

Ron half-hearted hissed at the snake several times to no avail. “Alright, you’re up.” 

Hermione gazed at the grass snake. She hated -- absolutely  _ hated _ \-- not being able to do something. Learning Parseltongue seemed impossible, but she couldn’t stand failure. Staring at the snake intently, Hermione hissed. 

“Nope, that’s just hissing,” Harry said helpfully. 

Hermione blocked him out, and instead stared harder, willing the magic to work. Carefully, she hissed. 

“That was English,” Harry complained. “You’ve got to give it a real try.”

Beside him, Ron’s jaw dropped. “That...wasn’t English to me.” 

They both looked at Hermione. “Huh,” Harry said eloquently. “I guess Parseltongue can be taught.”

* * *

 

_ Malfoy Manor _

_ Wiltshire, England _

_ 30 March 1994 _

 

“Lucius?”

He smiled indulgently at his wife. “Yes, love?” 

“Is there really nothing you can do about the impending nuptials between Sirius Black and Maura Zabini?”

“Nothing particularly legal, but I could pull some favors. Why do you ask?”  

Narcissa rubbed her stomach idly. “I don’t want the Black seat to fall to Maura Zabini’s spawn. Of course, Zabini would have to let dear Sirius live long enough to beget a son and name him, but given the amount of care she puts into her men, I’m certain she researched the Black inheritance laws.” 

“Pity.” 

Narcissa sniffed. “The Black lordship should rightfully pass to Draco...as ill-suited as he is to hold it, it’s best to keep matters within the family.” 

Lucius grimaced. Draco’s behavior was rather disappointing, especially for a boy his age. It was embarrassing to see his son, the scion of a Noble and Ancient House, routinely beaten academically by a muggleborn and outperformed in nearly every other aspect by the blood traitor Ronald Weasley. Lucius never dreamed he would be jealous of the late Arthur Weasley, but the man had fathered several intelligent, accomplished children. While Charles, Frederick, and George were scarcely paragons of Wizarding nobility, Charles, at least, was rather successful in his chosen field. 

William, the eldest son, was clearly brilliant, and had a remarkable career as a curse breaker in addition to his work as Lord Weasley and Regent Gryffindor. Lucius could never support William Weasley’s policies -- they were too close to Progressive for his tastes -- but he could admire the younger wizard’s composure. Percival, the third eldest and Lord Prewett, was not a failure either. Lucius wondered if the boy wouldn’t have been better suited in Ravenclaw as he seemed to be a bit of a bore, but he was articulate, and always prepared for Wizengamot sessions. 

Lucius internally scowled. Ronald Weasley was practically everything a father hoped to see in his son. Mature, ambitious, and clever, Ronald seemed to succeed in everything he set his mind to, whether it was academics, chess, or Quidditch. He managed to outscore Draco academically each year, which bothered Lucius to no end. If only Draco was half as clever as Ronald. 

Lucius didn’t know much about the youngest Weasley, Ginevra, but he knew she’d been in the top ten of her year academically and a reserve player on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Allegedly, she would be quite beautiful when she grew up. 

“A sickle for your thoughts?”

Lucius looked up. “My apologies. I was thinking about Draco. I owled my cousin Dorian several weeks ago regarding  our son, and Dorian and his family are happy to host Draco over the summer. Dorian’s second oldest, Baptiste, is registered for a Quidditch camp in Scotland. I will sign Draco up as well, and he can live in France for the summer with the exception of the Quidditch World Cup. I’m certain he would be devastated to miss that.” 

Narcissa pursed her lips.  “With any luck, your cousins can teach him some tact.” 

Lucius eyed Narcissa thoughtfully. “Indeed. If Draco’s behaviour fails to improve, there’s plenty of time before his seventeenth birthday to determine a better line of succession.”

* * *

 

_ Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and Lilian Moon’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 2 April 1994 _

 

For the first time in her life, Hermione considered throwing a book into a wall out of sheer frustration. She’d thought learning a handful of words in Parseltongue was frustrating, but nothing compared to learning Occlumency. Parseltongue had been impossible in other ways -- the sibilant hisses all sounded incredibly similar, and they’d been difficult to replicate. Occlumency, by contrast, was easy to understand, and impossible to do. Hermione couldn’t figure out for the life of her how to clear her mind. 

No matter how hard she tried, her brain buzzed with information. Hermione had tried to get help from Aria, but the older Slytherin’s tips hadn’t been particularly useful. Now, Aria was too busy to help Hermione with her Occlumency due to the rapidly approaching N.E.W.T.s. 

Hermione sighed in frustration. To further complicate matters, Occlumency books were exclusively found in the Restricted Section of the library, meaning they would be unavailable until her fifth year. Hermione needed to learn Occlumency  _ now _ . Or, more precisely, she needed to have significant skills in Occlumency sometime last year, but there was nothing she could do to change the past. 

Hermione gently smacked her forehead against her desk, then re-opened the book, hoping for new insights. Unsurprisingly, there were none. Hermione read the first chapter for the umteenth time. The book was quite clear on the mental state she needed to achieve, but frustratingly vague on how to get there. It sounded oddly like meditation or yoga, two things she was untalented in. 

Hermione sat upright in her chair. If beginning Occlumency was similar to meditation, perhaps muggle meditation exercises would work. They certainly wouldn’t make things worse. Hermione chewed on her quill thoughtfully, and tried to come up with a tactful way to ask her parents to send her meditation books.

 


	21. Minor Complications

_ Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and Lilian Moon’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 10 April 1994 _

 

Millie swallowed hard and read the letter again. While letters from home weren’t terribly uncommon, they usually were banal; asking Millie about her friends, her grades, and if she’d been to Hogsmeade with any cute boys. This letter, however, was different. It didn’t take a genius to read the stress and worry between the lines, and Millie could feel in her heart that it heralded something wrong.

 

_ Dearest Millicent, _

_ I hope you are continuing to enjoy school. Your father and I are very proud of your Quidditch accomplishments and wish you and your team the best of luck in winning the House Cup. We have faith in you and know you will succeed.  _

_ Your cousins owled me asking to pass on a message to you regarding your friend Hermione Granger. They encourage you to continue and enrich your friendship with Miss Granger. She is a subject of great curiosity among their family and they hope to learn more about her character and general disposition.  _

_ We will visit the extended family in the motherland over the summer holiday, and I am certain that your cousins will be eager to learn about your friends and adventures at school.  _

_ Continue to work hard, _

 

_ Love,  _

_ Mother _

 

Millie bit her lip. The letter was almost painfully obvious, and its contents made Mille quite uncomfortable. Her cousins -- clearly the Dolohovs, as she didn’t have any close cousins on the Bulstrode side -- essentially wanted her to spy on one of her best friends. Millie was also certain that by “cousins”, her mother didn’t mean the tsarvich, Eduard. Rather, Millie was rather certain she was referring to Tsar Sergei Dolohov, and his wife, Tsarina Madelaine Dolohova née Delacour. 

Of the two, the tsarina scared Millie more. While the tsar was fiercely intelligent and a powerful wizard, the tsarina’s perfect features masked a cold and calculating woman. She was fiercely protective of Eduard and there clearly wasn’t a price she wouldn’t pay to keep him safe. Millie didn’t particularly blame her for that. Eduard was Sergei and Madelaine’s only child, and if something happened to him, the line of succession would get quite complicated. 

Relations-wise, Sergei’s younger brother Antonin was closest to the throne, but he’d been disinherited due to his embarrassing involvement with the Dark Lord. After Antonin, one had to go back a generation. Sergei had been the only son and the second child of Vladimir Dolohov and Klara Petrova. Sergei’s older sister, Viktoriya, had disappeared, and at that time, women couldn’t inherit anyway, so she wasn’t particularly important to the line of succession. The rule about women had changed, though. As long as the witch in question changed her surname to Dolohova, and her husband was of the correct sort and willing to take her name, she could inherit the throne. 

This small fact was especially important to Millie. Viktor Dolohov, Tsar Sergei’s younger brother, had two daughters, Anita and Anastasiya. Anita was the older of the two, and Millie’s mother. 

It was rather concerning to think that she, Millie, was third in line to the Russian throne. After Millie came her brother, Edmund, and Anastasiya’s only surviving child, Aria Nott. After Aria, the line got even more diluted, passing to Sofia Morozova, and then to her two children, Viktor and Stefan Krum. 

Millie frowned, mulling the whole situation over. She had absolutely no idea why the tsarina was interested in Hermione. Hermione was...Hermione. She was fiendishly intelligent, of course, and good friends with Harry, but Millie was also friends with Harry. They played Quidditch together, for Merlin’s sake! Millie wouldn’t be surprised if her cousins were trying to get information on Harry, or on Ron for that matter given both of them would inherit Wizengamot seats upon turning seventeen. Hermione, though, was muggleborn, and Millie had no idea how she tied into anything.

Signing, Millie carefully incinerated the letter and prayed. One could never be too careful when the Dolohovs were involved.

* * *

 

_ Chambers of the Wizengamot _

_ London, England _

_ 11 April 1994 _

 

“The money, however, is not even the most important part of the equation,” Lord Greengrass expounded, “the fate of our children is what we should focus on most. While the new primary school system is not yet in place, several benefits have emerged, most clearly in the restructuring and enriching of our curriculum. Furthermore, the schools provide more jobs for young witches and wizards as well as the opportunity for more education apprenticeships. By providing our teachers with more opportunities to teach, they will improve the quality of their teaching, thereby improving our education system.” 

“Thank you, Lord Greengrass,” droned the Moderator. “Lady Brown, you are now recognized.”

“Thank you. First, I would like to reiterate that I was a signatory of the Primary Education Reform Act. That being said, I do not believe we should allocate funds prior to determining how the schools will function. Rather than blindly increase the budget for school functions, I suggest we wait for one full year of operation to take place in order to allow for the most efficient funding scheme. Under this plan, we will target specific areas for improvement, which will decrease the likelihood of misused funds.”

Percy found himself nodding in agreement. 

“Thank you, Lady Brown. Lord Prewett, you are now recognized.” 

Percy stepped up to the podium, feeling only slightly nervous. He’d addressed the Wizengamot several times before, although he’d mainly agreed with points made by other speakers. This time, however, he had his own point to make. 

“Thank you, Moderator,” Percy began, making an effort to keep pomposity out of his voice. “I concurred with the sentiments conveyed by Lady Brown, and would like to offer another point for consideration: Hogwarts. Due to the primary school curriculum, namely History of Magic, Herbology, and Runic Scripts, the Hogwarts curriculum will need to experience significant changes. The curriculum currently projects students to take the History of Magic O.W.L. in third year and the Herbology O.W.L. in fourth year, which will allow for more specialization and freedom of scheduling. Furthermore, if Runic Scripts is offered in primary school, students ought to have the option to take Ancient Runes starting in their first year. I have numerous other ideas for curriculum changes, and suggest a separate committee is formed to handle them.”

“Thank you, Lord Prewett. Lord Gamp, you are now recognized.”

Percy made his way back to his seat, noting with satisfaction that several of the lords who’d been nodding during his speech were now whispering with their neighbors. Percy settled into his chair, and opened the note waiting for him. 

_ Well-spoken, brother. Who would be included on this theoretical committee of yours -- besides yourself, of course. _

Percy mentally rolled his eyes. Bill was always eager to give him a hard time. 

_ I would include three main groups on the committee -- current primary school teachers and Hogwarts professors, recent Hogwarts graduates, and current Hogwarts students. This will give a clear picture of where education ideally goes, how it actually impacts graduates, and how it can be made better for current students. _

Percy folded the note into a small aeroplane, and tapped it once with his wand. “Lord Weasley,” he intoned quietly. The aeroplane whizzed off, and Percy relaxed in his chair. Debate had moved from the primary schools to foreign policy, and Percy listened idly as Lord Slughorn made a point, jowls quivering with each word. The man clearly didn’t understand the intricacies of international banking. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy saw Bill raise his wand to be recognized to speak. Lord Slughorn finished his diatribe, and Bill rose next, quickly dismantling the other man’s argument. The Gringotts Liaison, Sigmund Scrimgeour, spoke next, and supported Bill’s arguments. Percy felt rather smug about the situation. 

“All those wishing to speak, raise your wands,” said the Moderator. There was a long pause. “Seeing none, we will move to the next item of debate: those petitioning for High House status. There are currently forty-one High Houses, and six petitioning Lower Houses. The Wizengamot can chose to Ascend none, two, or all six.”

Percy nodded along. There always had to be a prime number of High Houses.

“The preliminary vote will take place momentarily. This vote is merely for consideration, and does not guarantee any increase in status. To move onto the next stage of the process, at least eight High Houses must be in favor of Ascension. We will now move into voting procedure. All those who wish to hear further discussion on House Diggory, raise your wands.”

Percy craned his neck. He personally wasn’t in favor of the Diggorys, but Lord Abbott was, as well as Lady Brown, Lord Flitwick, and, surprisingly, Lord Fawley and Lord MacMillan. 

“House Diggory fails to receive the requisite number of votes. All those who wish to hear further discussion on House Marchbanks, raise your wands.”

Percy raised his lighted wand, along with Bill, and all the Progressives, and most of the Neutral-Traditionalists.

“House Marchbanks receives twelve votes, and will undergo further review. All those who wish to hear further discussion on House Ogden, raise your wands.”

Unsurprisingly, the Ogdens failed to receive enough votes. House Rookwood received nine, almost all from the Blood-Purist bloc. House Runcorn garnered even more support, receiving fifteen votes across the Blood-Purists, Traditionalists, and Neutral-Traditionalists. Only the Progressives seemed displeased. The last House Umbridge was the last on the docket, and barely managed to receive eight votes.   

“This concludes discussion for today, and this session of the Wizengamot is now adjourned.” 

Percy stood up, stretched, and made his way over towards Bill. 

“Nice speech,” Percy said as they made their way out. 

“Thanks. It wasn’t really anything special, just clearing up the details of international banking.”

“Lord Slughorn didn’t know them.”

Bill scoffed. “Of course not. If you haven’t noticed, he’s rather long in the tooth. He should have ceded the Slughorn seat to his son years ago.”

Percy wracked his memory for wizards with the surname Slughorn. “To Horace Slughorn?”

Bill shook his head. “No, that’s Osgood’s younger brother. The son’s name is Oliver.”

Percy felt rather stupid. “Oh.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Say, do you want to grab a pint and discuss that idea of yours?”

Percy smiled despite himself. “Sure. Let me change out of my Wizengamot robes -- one

moment.” Percy retrieved his Extra-Compact Wrinkle-Free robe pouch from his cloak pocket, and shrugged out of his violet Wizengamot robes. He folded in carefully, smoothing his had once over the Prewett crest before tucking them in the pouch and withdrawing a plain navy robe. He put it on, and caught Bill smirking at him. 

“What are you going on about?”

“You and your fancy clothes storage. That and the fact that I got away with wearing dragonhide boots with my formal robes.” 

“Bill!” Percy protested. He wasn’t squawking. He was just mildly alarmed. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill said, pulling a set of red robes over his shoulders. “Come along now. I’ve got a table reserved at the Leaky.” 

They headed to the Leaky Cauldron and ordered dinner. Percy wasn’t the biggest fan of the Leaky’s food -- it was a bit too greasy for his tastes -- but Bill insisted on paying and Percy wasn’t about to turn down a free meal. The conversation slowly turned from politics to work. 

“Did you decide to take the job in Legal, or did a better offer come up?” Bill asked. 

Percy finished chewing his bite of cottage pie before answering. “I’m taking the job in Legal. The salary isn’t bad, and I’ll also be taking two classes per semester at the Wizarding College at Cambridge. They’re paying for it, too, and I’ll get a higher pay grade once I get my Politics and Economics certificate.” 

Bill grinned. “Well done! Good on you.” 

“Everything, of course, is contingent on good N.E.W.T.s…”

Bill made a dismissive sound. “Don’t worry about those. You’ll do fine.” 

“I have a rather heavy course load…”

“You’ve been getting O’s in every class, Percy. You’re not going to have any problems.”  

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So, do you know how Mum’s doing?” Bill asked. 

“Er…” 

“Is she not doing well, or did you not bother to check in?” 

“She’s...really not doing well.” Percy scratched the back of his head, trying to stall. “She’s been very depressed lately, stopped showing up to her job at the pub, actually. They were going to fire her, and I convinced them otherwise. Not sure how long that will hold out though. If she doesn’t show up, there’s no point in having her on staff, and if she doesn’t work, she can’t afford to eat.” 

Bill sighed. “I’ll take care of it. I’m due for a raise in a couple months, and if I can convince Fred and George to get real jobs this summer we’ll have even fewer problems.” 

Percy scowled. “I wish they’d pull it together. Ron’s been doing quite well for himself, and Ginny even earned money last summer.” 

“Look, if it’s their way of coping, let them do it. They were old enough to remember how Mum use to be.” 

Percy looked away. “What even happened to her?” 

Bill shrugged. “Depression. Shock. The  _ Daily Prophet  _ articles against Dad didn’t help either.” 

“She use to be so strong.”

“She lost both her brothers in the war along with her parents. Her only cousins are incapacitated or missing and presumed dead. It’s a lot for one person to take, and after Dad passed...well, he was her rock. No matter what happened, he was there for her, and she was there for him. When he died she lost that, and she just...broke.” 

“Is there anything we can do?” Percy asked.

Bill shook his head. “Nothing can fix a broken heart.”

* * *

 

_ Zamok Holodnogo Ognja _

_ Eastern Russia _

_ 16 April 1994 _

 

“Hello, husband.” 

“So you have word, then.” 

Madelaine smiled. “The best kind. We located your aunt.” 

Sergei raised an eyebrow. “Where was she?”

“Britain. England, to be specific.” 

“Explain.” 

“In the 1940s, an allegedly Jewish  muggle woman made her way into Britain from Russia under the name Viktoriya Dvorkina. The British muggles assumed she was fleeing the war, and allowed her into the country. She went on to marry a muggle, Tristan Sanders, and anglicized her first name. They had one daughter: Helen, who turned out to be a squib. Helen grew up ignorant of her magical heritage, went to university and became a muggle Tooth Healer. She married another muggle Tooth Healer named Jack Granger. Their daughter, Hermione, is a witch.” 

“Mm. And this is the girl you’ve had young Millicent watch?”

“Yes.” 

“What do we think of this Hermione?” 

Madelaine took a moment to collect her thoughts. “She’s highly intelligent, and clever. She was sorted into Slytherin House at Hogwarts, the same one as Millicent and Aria, which prizes ambition and cleverness.” 

“In short, she’s a Dolohov.” 

“Precisely.” 

“She must be brought into the fold. It would be unspeakably bad if one of our enemies got ahold of her, or if anyone else discovers her secret. Since Viktoriya was disowned, Hermione Granger has no claim to the throne. However, that could be changed, if we think Hermione would be better than Anastasiya or Millicent. At any rate, if she’s as intelligent as you say, she would be an asset to the family. We must play this carefully. There’s no need to spook the girl.” 

“We will have several more family members in Britain this year,” Madelaine mused. “My cousin, Fleur, will be a part of the Beauxbatons contingent. I would assume that both Viktor and Stefan will attend with Durmstrang?” 

Sergei nodded. “Naturally. I have high hopes for Viktor, and Stefan continues to not disappoint, even if he is a bit immature.” 

“Viktor coddles him too much.”

“Mm. It’s only natural. Viktor is very loyal to his family. I am certain he can handle our

situation with tact.” 

“I trust Viktor to act as he sees fit. As for Fleur, Millicent can introduce her to Hermione. Perhaps Fleur can offer both girls some beauty tips.” 

Sergei looked at her in askance. 

“Hermione has the Dolohov hair, and you’ve met Millicent.”  

“I understand. I anticipate hearing from our cousins. After all, the family must endure.” 

Madelaine smiled. “Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Updates are likely to be less frequent in the next six weeks - I'm heading in a very busy part of the semester. I will try to update every two weeks but can't make any promises since some professors are unpredictable.


	22. An Heir and a Spare

_ Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 20 April 1994 _

 

Ron re-read the letter again, scarcely believing his luck. Bill had promised to pass Ron’s resumé onto the relevant people at Gringotts, but he hadn’t in a million years thought that he’d actually get a job. Admittedly, it was a boring job, and not one that any grown wizard would want. However, it would give him real-life experience with Arithmancy and Runes, and it was the best paying job he’d ever had.  Ron read through the letter again, giddy with excitement. 

 

_ Dear Mr. Ronald Weasley, _

_ We are pleased to inform you that your skill set meets our requirements and would like to offer you the temporary position of  _ Tablet Inscriber  _ in our  _ Runic Warding _ division. This position is paid at an hourly rate of 6 Sickles and 23 Knuts.  _

_ We require your acceptance letter and earliest work date no later than 1 May. If we do not receive communication from you prior to 1 May, we will assume you no longer wish to hold this position.  _

 

_ Signed, _

_ Ripclaw _

_ Associate Head of the Interrelations Department _

_ Gringotts Bank -- London Branch _

 

Ron clutched the letter to himself, grinning like a loon. He would have to ask Percy for advice on writing an acceptance letter, but that could wait until after breakfast. Food, after all, was the most important. Still smiling, Ron toed on his trainers, and pulled on one of Charlie’s old jumpers over his shirt. He plucked absently at the sleeves and frowned. They were getting rather short, and more than a bit frayed. 

Ron shrugged. After a summer of working, he would have more than enough funds to buy himself a new jumper. Grin back in place, and letter safely stowed in his desk, Ron headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry was already gone, since he went to extra Quidditch practice in the mornings, and rivaled Marcus Flint for pure fanaticism. Harry’s hard work certainly paid off -- he was clearly the best Seeker in the school, and Slytherin had remained undefeated, with only a game against Gryffindor standing between them and the Quidditch cup. 

It’d be weird, next year, with Flint gone. Higgs and Warrington were the next oldest on the team, and Ron felt Harry had an equal shot as either of them at getting captain. Harry had a way about him that inspired everyone else to work harder and put more time into Quidditch. Ron felt somewhat guilty about skipping the optional morning practice, but he’d been up late working on Arithmancy, and been too lazy to get out of bed.

He’d go the next time they had an optional practice. He’d feel guilty if he didn’t. 

Ron waved cheerily to several portraits on his way to the Great Hall and plunked himself down between Millie and Harry who, to nobody’s surprise, were avidly discussing Quidditch. 

“I still don’t get why we don’t have a full reserve team,” Harry said, annoyance clear in his voice. “We’d not only have people ready to go in case of injury, but we’d also have a ready-made team of replacements for when people graduate.” 

“But then you have the problem of some reserves being  better than first string players,” Millie pointed out. “People will get mad if they think they’re better than the people getting playing time.” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think that matters much. If  _ I _ was captain, I would have the best players play, regardless of who their father was or how long they’d been on the team. If the reserves practice harder and become better than the people who got first string at tryouts, then the reserves deserve to play.” 

“Harry, could you pass me the pumpkin juice?” Ron asked. 

“Sure.”

“So what sparked this conversation?” 

“Practice this morning,” Millie said, spitting out the word ‘practice’ as if it were dirty. “Me and Ron both think Vane or Runcorn should be Chasers instead of Malfoy.” 

Ron nodded. “Ah.” 

“It’s so stupid,” Harry said. “Malfoy  _ never _ comes to morning practice, and he whines his way through regular practice about how he should be Seeker when I’m obviously better, and when he isn’t whining he’s talking about how great daddy-dearest is.”

“I know, I’ve been there,” Ron and Millie said, almost in unison.

“Gahhhhhhhh!”

“Look, post!” Ron announced, grateful for the distraction. Once Harry got on a

Malfoy-is-bad tangent, there was no stopping him.  

A veritable sea of owls flew in, and to Ron’s great surprise, he had a letter...a letter from the British Quidditch League. Thoroughly confused, Ron opened the letter and began to read.

_ Dear Mr. Ronald Weasley, _

_ The British Quidditch League is always scouting for talent, and our staff has identified you as a potential recruit. I would like to personally invite you to attend the British Quidditch League’s summer camp on 12 August to 17 August. Financial information is enclosed, as well as applications for scholarships. I strongly encourage you to apply for a scholarship, given your Quidditch skills and other achievements.  _

_ If you have any queries, do not hesitate to owl the League. We hope to see you in August.  _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Oscar Dagworth _

_ Recruiting Chairman, British Quidditch League _

 

Ron quickly flipped through the camp brochure and the scholarship application. It was rather odd that he was receiving this letter -- he couldn’t remember any recruiters at games, and Harry had to apply to camp much earlier the year before.  

“Harry?” Ron asked quietly, mind drifting back to a conversation held several weeks ago.

Harry looked up, mouth full of scrambled eggs. “Mmph?” 

“Are you responsible for this?”

Harry swallowed. “What?”

“I got a letter from the British Quidditch League,” Ron said slowly. “Did you have anything to do with it?” 

There was a slight pause, and it told Ron all he needed to know. 

“Why? You know I don’t want any handouts,” Ron started angrily.” 

“It wasn’t a handout,” Harry interrupted. “I did owl Oscar Dagworth, but not about you specifically. I suggested that the BQL should scout some of the younger players at Hogwarts, and also offer scholarships for their camp given how expensive it is.”  
“But --” 

“Do you know how many Galleons the BQL brings in each year from signed jerseys alone?” Harry asked. “It’s a stupid amount. They have more than enough money to fund a full scholarship program. Besides, now that the primary schools have started, they’re going to begin a kiddie Learn-To-Fly program, which will pull in even more funds.”

“Look, I --”

“Apply for the scholarship, Ron. You deserve to do something fun with your summer.

Besides, BQL’s Keeper training program is amazing, and if we want to keep our winning streak up and compensate for Malfoy’s incompetence, you’ll have to improve. And, it will be one less thing that Malfoy can lord over you. Good gods, it makes me wish that we could take Spell Crafting earlier so I could make a spell to conjure duct tape to seal Malfoy’s stupid mouth shut.”

“I...What’s up with Malfoy?”

“He’s an annoying little arse.”

“No...look at him, there’s something wrong.” 

Several seats down, Draco Malfoy was staring at a sheet of parchment in horror, hands shaking as all color drained from his face. 

“Maybe his membership from Idiots United was revoked,” Harry quipped. 

Malfoy looked like he was going to vomit. 

“I don’t think it’s that,” Ron said slowly. “I think he did get bad news, though.” 

Malfoy stood up abruptly, clutching the letter to his chest before running out of the Great Hall. Everyone watched in almost silent confusion, then the hubbub started up again. 

Harry’s eyes widened. “Okay, I take back what I said. That was serious.” 

Ron nodded. “Yeah.” 

“What do you think it was? A political thing?”

Ron thought for a moment. “Maybe. Or a family thing. I don’t think Lord Malfoy would share political secrets.” 

“Huh. Maybe someone died?”

Ron closed his eyes, trying to recall the exact expression on Draco Malfoy’s face. It’d been an expression of horror, then of fear. “Perhaps…”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll find out eventually.” 

They went back to their respective breakfasts, and Harry snagged half of Theo’s  _ Daily Prophet _ . They munched in silence for several minutes until Harry swore.

“What?” 

“I can’t bloody believe this!”

“Believe what?”

Harry jabbed his finger angrily at the paper. “The bastard who betrayed my parents. Apparently he’s  _ still _ on the loose, and it’s all the way back on page five! If it weren’t for him, my parents could still be alive. It doesn’t even sound like his capture is that much of a priority.”

“Let me see.” 

Harry shoved the paper towards Ron, and viciously stabbed his bacon. 

 

_ PETTIGREW STILL EVADES CAPTURE _

_ by Harper Whipsnapper _

 

_ Peter Pettigrew (pictured left), the wizard responsible for the betrayal of the Potter family to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named continues to evade Auror capture. The most recent sighting was on 23 March in Holyhead. Pettigrew is violent, and should not be approached. Sightings should immediately be reported to the Auror department via the emergency Floo line.  _

 

Ron read through the article a second time. “It does seem...rather far back in the paper.”

“See!” 

“I mean, the Aurors don’t exactly want it advertised that they can’t find one wizard who’s been on the loose for how many months? Seven? Eight? It makes them look incompetent.” 

“Well, maybe they are incompetent,” Harry snarked. 

“Possibly. It’s more likely that Pettigrew has accomplices.” 

Harry scowled. “What utter  _ scum _ . I should file a complaint. See how they like that. Maybe it’d make them do something, me being the Boy-Who-Lived and all,  _ and _ the son of the people Pettigrew all but murdered.”

Ron opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. There really wasn’t anything to say, emotionally, logically, or otherwise. It was a bit odd that Pettigrew hadn’t been captured yet, and sightings were few and far between. 

Beside them, Millie ruffled through the  _ Daily Prophet _ . “Oi, Ron, Harry...you weren’t on the wrong track with Malfoy.”

“What?”  
“It wasn’t that someone died,” Millie said slowly, “it was that someone was born. Well, two someones, to be precise.”

“What!?”

Millie pointed to the Birth Announcements section. “Look here.” 

Ron and Harry crowded around the paper to where Millie’s finger pointed to one damning line. 

_ Lord Lucius Malfoy and Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy are pleased to announce the birth of twins, Semper Oberon and Selene Valentina _ . 

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Oh.” 

Millie nodded at him, eyes wide. “Yeah. You understand why Draco just lost his mind?”

“Uh huh. That’s...rough.”

“And he’s definitely thinking of the worst case scenario, the dramatic little shite.” 

“Sweet Merlin…” 

“Er, could you explain?” Harry piped up. “I’m a bit lost.” 

“Should I…?” Ron asked.

“I will. Harry, you know how ideally each Wizengamot family has three children? Two sons and a daughter?” 

“Yeah -- an heir, a spare, and a daughter to marry off, right?” 

“Ehhh...essentially. Anyway, the last time the Malfoys had two sons was seven generations ago.”

“Oh. Do I want to know why?”

“You probably don’t want to know the gory details, but the younger brother nearly offed the older one.” 

“Ah. I see. So Draco is worried that his baby brother will off him?” 

“Well,” Millie began delicately, “not exactly.” 

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

“Er…”

“He’s likely more afraid of his father,” Ron cut in.

Harry stared. “He’s  _ what _ ?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.” 

Harry inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “Why?” 

“If he fails to achieve to his father’s standards, there’s now another son who can eventually inherit the Malfoy seat. Lord Malfoy could easily disinherit Draco, which would be quite embarrassing for the entire family. Depending on Lord Malfoy’s generosity, Draco could be provided with a stipend which would allow him to rent out a nice flat in Diagon Alley and never work a day in his life, or he could be completely cut off from the family.” 

“That doesn’t seem  _ too _ bad.”

“Yeah. Well, here’s the other thing: he could also end up dead.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter hasn’t been beta’d -- any mistakes are my own. In other exciting news, there are only two chapters left in this installment of the series.


	23. Pettigrew Again

_Hogwarts Express_

_United Kingdom_

_1 June 1994_

 

The end of the school year had passed by far too quickly, in Harry’s opinion. It felt like Slytherin had won the Quidditch Cup only days ago, and that the revelation of the Malfoy twins had only been a few days before that. In fact, the surprise birth of Draco’s siblings might have been the reason they’d won the Quidditch Cup since Draco had been too shaken to play. Hector Runcorn had played Chaser instead, and while he wasn’t as good of a flier as Draco, he was far better at working with the Chasers as a unit.

Harry pressed his nose against the glass, staring as the Scottish countryside whizzed away, feeling oddly empty. He’d be heading back to the Dursley’s, and be effectively alone for several weeks. He didn’t understand why. Sirius, while not the most stable of people, was perfectly capable of providing a place for Harry to stay. After all, it wasn’t as if Harry was some dumb kid who needed to be watched every minute of the day.

Harry sighed. It wasn’t as if the Dursleys were mean to him anymore, not after what Snape had done after his first year of Hogwarts. They simply ignored him, and while Harry could owl his friends as much as he liked, he got lonely. There was something about a lack of human contact that absolutely drained him and weighed on his soul.

He would be staying with Sirius for the week leading up to his godfather’s wedding, and Sirius had promised to take Harry out to Wizarding London. Harry hoped with all his heart that it wasn’t an empty promise, especially since Sirius was so busy thinking about his dumb wedding. Harry had quietly promised himself multiple times that he’d never be so lovesick over a girl as Sirius was over his fiancée. There was obviously something fishy about the entire situation. Harry wasn’t a Sherlock Holmes, and even he could spot the trouble from a kilometer away. It was so incredibly frustrating to be an onlooker and not be able to do anything.

“...Harry?”

“Sorry. What was that?”

“We’re almost back to King’s Cross. You probably should pack up your trunk.”

“Right.”

Harry set about repacking the Exploding Snap cards and the leftover snacks.

“Are you alright?” Ron asked suddenly.

“What?”

Ron shrugged. “You’ve been pretty quiet since we got back into England. Is everything alright?”

Harry closed his trunk. “I’m fine.”

“Funny, you don’t seem fine.”

“Well, I am.”

“Harry, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ve...just been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

Harry glanced hastily around the compartment. Hermione, Lily, and Millie were all engaged in a heated debate and weren’t paying a whit of attention to Harry and Ron. “It’s about Sirius,” Harry confided quietly. “There’s no way it can end well.”

Ron looked down, then away. “A lot of us have been thinking that.”

“Gee, thanks, that makes me feel loads better.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s just that he seems so in love. Every time he’s met me in Hogsmeade, he just wants to talk about how pretty she is, how smart she is, and how wonderful she is. It’s hard to get him to shut up about it, and one part of me wants it to work out. The rest of me knows it really won’t. I wish he could see that. I don’t want Sirius to die.”

“He’s a smart wizard…”

“Not right now he’s not. I don’t know how he was before, but it’s doesn’t take Merlin to figure out that Azkaban seriously messed with his head. Sometimes he trails off and is just...gone… for a moment, and sometimes he gets these ridiculous flights of fancy… I just don’t know what to do about it.”

Silence hung between them for a moment.

“As mean as it sounds, I don’t think there’s much you can do.”

“I know. That almost makes it worse, doesn’t it? Knowing something is wrong but being completely helpless to fix it?”

“Yeah.”

The Hogwarts Express stopped with the slightest of bumps.

Ron looked at Harry seriously. “Look, chin up, mate. I’ll see you at the wedding and at Quidditch camp, yeah?”

Harry nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

 

_12 Grimmauld Place_

_London, England_

_3 June 1994_

 

“Harry, have you seen my ascot anywhere?”

Harry blinked as Sirius hung onto the doorpost as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, hair a mess and limbs akimbo.

“What?”

“Have you seen my ascot? I can’t find it anywhere!”

“Did you check in your wardrobe?”

“Yes!”

“Did you check your bedside table?”

Sirius nodded frantically.

“Does Kreacher have it?”

Sirius swore artfully, and dashed off.

Harry sighed, and went back to reading his book. They had nearly three hours until they had to leave for the wedding, and Sirius was already a wreck. To be fair, he’d been a wreck for the past couple of days, fidgeting about details and generally being an emotional mess. Dealing with him had certainly been an experience, and one Harry could have done without.

The minutes slowly ticked away until Harry could no longer procrastinate putting on his dress robes. They were quite posh -- made from hand-spun Acromantula silk -- and made customly for Harry. Sirius had insisted on purchasing them, and insisted that Harry be his best man.

 _That_ had been an uncomfortable conversation. Harry had expected Remus Lupin to be Sirius’ best man, considering the two had been close since Hogwarts, but Maura apparently had vetoed the choice. Somehow, Harry had been deemed an acceptable alternative. This continued to baffle him, and Harry had given up divining why.

Harry prodded his hair experimentally in an effort to determine if it could be tamed. As usual, it refused to cooperate, and Harry gave up rather quickly.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Harry slid his feet into dragonhide boots, and laced them up.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

“Come on, then.”

Harry exited his room, and for a moment he thought Sirius was going to tear up. “You look so much like James.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, and thankfully, after a moment, Sirius composed himself. “We’ll apparate in. Take my arm…”

Harry grasped Sirius’ forearm, and after a gut wrenching twist and squeeze, they found themselves standing in the middle of the Arboreum, which arguably was one of the most beautiful parts of Wizarding London. Chestnut-leaved oak trees dating back to the founding of the Council of Lords reached upwards, creating a thick canopy. Short flowering bushes decorated the lush landscape, along with small ponds filled with water lilies.

The air was warm, and a touch humid, but not so much as to be oppressive. In short, it was completely and utterly horribly perfect.

Sirius grinned nervous. “It’s pretty nice, eh? Cost me a small fortune to rent it out for the day. Maura wanted to split the cost between us, but I insisted paying for all of it. Not because she can’t afford it -- she’s filthy rich as well -- but because I know my mother would be rolling in her grave if she could see this.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s great,” Sirius rambled on, “I know Maura isn’t after me for my money, since we each have so much!”

Harry winced. Maura Zabini was clearly after far greater things than the Black vaults. “Er, yeah, that’s good to hear.”

“You must be excited. You and Blaise will be almost like brothers.”

Harry shrugged half-heartedly, and Sirius’ smiled dimmed. Instinctively, Harry sensed an opening.  “We’ll still spend time together, just the two of us, even with Blaise and Maura around, right?” Harry asked, letting the slightest hint of anxiety creep into his voice.

“Of course! Why would you think otherwise?”

Harry shrugged again, and shuffled his feet in the grass. “I dunno, Blaise has been acting all superior lately. Makes me feel like he knows something I don’t. Plus, he’s been saying some things…”

Sirius looked concerned. “Like what?”

Harry took a deep breath. He’d have to play this very carefully, and if it meant telling a few white lies, well, Sirius didn’t need to know about those. “He’s been sending me all these smug expressions and talking about how perfect and proper his mother is.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “He made it sound like we’d have to follow all sorts of special rules and that we wouldn’t be able to spend as much time together.”

“What!? I’m sure he didn’t mean that.”

“There’s only so many ways his words could be interpreted,” Harry said darkly. “I’d be on the lookout if I were you.”

Sirius didn’t look convinced, and Harry’s heart sank. “Alright, if you say so. Look, I’m going to go check in with the security staff. We’ve had to add extra precautions since that bastard Pettigrew is still on the loose. It would be great if the Aurors could be competent and catch him, eh?”

Harry made a non-committal noise, and Sirius strode off. There seemed to be a little less swagger in his step, but then again, it could just be wistful thinking.

Harry wasted time puttering around the Arboreum. He had the misfortune of running into Blaise, who sent him yet another of those superior looks. Harry contemplated hexing him, and was fortunately distracted by the arrival of guests.

It seemed like Sirius had decided to invite half of Wizarding Britain, and those who weren’t invited were conspicuous in their absence. Lord and Lady Malfoy were there, but they were the only Blood Purists present. The rest of the guests fell closer to the Neutral-Traditionalist side of the spectrum.

Harry craned his neck, searching the crowd for red hair. Ron had been invited, along with his older brother Bill, and Harry was eager to see his friend. Finally, after a minute of searching, Harry spotted them and made his way through the throng.

“Oi, Ron!”

Ron’s face split into a grin. “Harry! How are you?”

“I’m alright. And you?”

“Great! Working at Gringotts has been fantastic.”

Beside him, Bill chuckled.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ve met my oldest brother. Harry, this is Bill. Bill, Harry.”

Bill extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Harry.”

“Likewise.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask a question when a soft gong rang. Dread pooled inside him. “Well, that’s your cue to sit down and my cue to get ready. I’ll see you after the ceremony?”

“‘Course.”

Harry made his way to the groom’s tent where Sirius stood fidgeting with his cuffs. “Hey, Sirius.”

Sirius started. “Blahgh!”

Harry resisted the urge to laugh.

“I’m not nervous,” Sirius said hastily as he started to pace. “Not at all.”

“I never said you were nervous.”

“Huh? Of course not. I’m about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Everything will be great.” Sirius forced a smile, and Harry raised an eyebrow. This was different.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Harry said blandly.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sirius bounced in place. “Everyone’s a little nervous on their wedding day, right? Not that I, would be nervous. Just theoretically speaking.”

“Er, I dunno. I’m not really an expert.”

“Right,” Sirius said distractedly.

Outside the tent, the shuffle of the crowd grew quiet.

“I suppose we should get ready, huh?” Sirius asked nervously.

Harry nodded, and they headed to the tent door to wait for the orchestral music that signaled Sirius’ impending doom.

They stood in silence for several heartbeats until the first strains of violin began to play.

“That’s our cue.”

The doors of the tent parted, and Sirius walked through, Harry three steps behind him. The processional music continued to play as they strode down the petal-lined aisle. On the other side of the center section, their progress was mirrored by Maura and Blaise. All too soon, they reached the altar. A short wizard with a wispy beard gestured for Sirius and Maura to join hands as a knot of dread settled in Harry’s stomach. This was it. Sirius was going to do it, and there was nothing Harry could do to stop him.

The short wizard droned on about duty, matrimony, and magic. The knot in Harry’s stomach grew tighter with each word. “And now,” the wizard droned, “it is time for vows. Please step closer.”

Sirius and Maura each took a step, standing scarcely a handspan apart.

“Lord Black, if you would.”

Sirius swallowed. “I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine, from this day it shall only your name I cry out in the night and into your eyes that I smile each morning;

I shall be a shield for you back as you are for mine, no shall a grievous word be spoken about us,

for our marriage is sacred between us and no stranger shall hear my grievance. Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you through this life and into the next.” Sirius paused, taking a deep breath. He looked almost in pain. “Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til --”

Sirius choked on his words. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Harry stood by, watchful and almost horrified.

“I -- I --”

Maura’s brow furrowed, and Harry could make out the slightest hint of anger.

“I can’t do this,” Sirius blurted, dropping Maura’s hands. “I’m sorry.” With that he turned and fled, sending up a cloud of petals in his wake.

Maura was furious. “How _dare_ he! Make a fool out of me in front of everyone!”

Harry blanched, and backed away from the witch. Things were about to get interesting, and Harry wanted no part in that.

* * *

 

_Diagon Alley_

_London, England_

_3 July 1994_

 

“And so there you have it!” Sirius exclaimed boisterously. “My mother’s awful portrait, gone for good!”

Harry forced a grin, and Hermione and Ron nodded uneasily. It’d been over a month since the disastrous non-wedding, but people still stared, pointed, and whispered in the streets.

Sirius had been in incredibly high spirits of late, and had insisted on taking Harry, Ron, and Hermione out to Diagon Alley for the day. He’d taken them out for an expensive lunch, insisted on paying, and now was dragging them out for a shopping spree. Harry was a bit uncomfortable on the amount of Galleons Sirius was throwing around, and he could tell Ron and Hermione were more than a bit uncomfortable, but too polite to say anything.

“Er, Sirius?”

“Yes?”

“We don’t really need to do all this shopping, you know,” Harry said. “Me and Ron are happy to go look at stuff in Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Hermione wanted to get a new Runes book from Flourish and Blotts…”

“Oh, so we should go shop there later?”

“Er...not exactly what I was getting at…”

“Lord Black --” Hermione started.

“--Sirius --”

Hermione sighed. “Sirius, we’re very grateful for everything you’ve done for us today, but we can do our own shopping. Really.”

Ron nodded, and Sirius stopped mid-bounce to look at them. The wide grin slid off his face, making way for a more serious expression.

“I--”

“Sirius, it’s fine,” Harry cut in.

“No, let me explain. If it weren’t for me coming to my senses last month, I probably would be on my way to an early grave now, and if it weren’t for my release from Azkaban, I might as well been dead. It makes me...very happy to be here with the three of you, and nothing could make me more happy than spoiling all of you.

“You’re going to have to pardon my French for a moment, but the thought of my mother turning in her grave at me spending Black money on my half-blood godson, his blood-traitor best mate, and his muggleborn friend? Absolutely priceless. We have more Galleons in the Black vault than I could spend in a lifetime, and if I die without children, all of it goes to Draco Malfoy.”

Silence hung between the four.

“I see,” Harry said. “We need to help you spend Malfoy’s inheritance.”

Sirius grinned. “Exactly.”

“So, where are we off to first?”

Sirius took them through a series of shops, insisting on custom-fit dress robes, extra sets of casual robes, wand holsters, and anything else that struck his fancy. By the time they were in their fourth shop of the day, they’d gotten use to Sirius’ habits, and Hermione and Ron seemed to accept it. They were just exiting Flourish and Blotts when it happened.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a wizard appeared, wearing filthy, raggedly robes. He had the look of a man who had suddenly lost a large amount of weight, and his eyes had a nasty rat-like gleam. His wand was drawn, and pointed at Sirius.

Harry’s heart almost stopped. He needed to do something. His fingers reached for his wand, but they were too fumbling, too slow…

“ _Avada --_ ”

“ _STUPEFY!_ ”

A red jet of light shot forward, and the man collapsed. Hermione stood, wand still outstretched, fingers trembling.

Sirius hissed, long and low. “Pettigrew. _Incarcerous._ ” Thick ropes shot out of Sirius’ wand, binding the already unconscious wizard. “Hermione, make sure this fucker doesn’t move.”

Hermione nodded, wand fixed in place.

“Ron, go back in Flourish and Blotts and use their private Floo to contact the Aurors. Harry, stay here and help me make sure this crowd doesn’t run over.”  

Harry nodded his acknowledgement as Ron darted back into the store. A crowd was beginning to form, and it took several pointed words from Sirius to keep them a reasonable distance away.

Thankfully, Ron reappeared. “The Aurors should --”

He was interrupted by a series of pops, followed by loud complaints from the crowd as the Aurors shouldered their way through.

“Gawain, Loi, I need a positive identification on the man. Fergusson, I need your help with statements.” The burly man turned to Sirius. “Lord Black, I am Auror Robards. I heard you apprehended Pettigrew.”

“Actually, it was Hermione Granger.”

Robards looked skeptical.

“She was fast on the draw and got off a stunner before any of us could move. I put the incarcerous on him to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.”

“Ah.”

“Sir, we’ve got a positive identification on Pettigrew.”

“Thank you, Loi. Lord Black, we’re going to need statements from you, Granger, Weasley, and Potter. It’d be easiest if we could take them back at the Auror station.”

“Sounds fair. Where will you be holding Pettigrew?”

“Standard Ministry holding cells.”

“Make sure they’re fitted with anti-Animagus wards. Pettigrew’s a rat. Unregistered, of course.”  

Robards nodded. “Certainly.”

Sirius drew a shaky breath. “Alright. Harry, Ron, Hermione? We’re going to head to the Auror station. I’m so sorry this afternoon didn’t work out as planned.”

Harry nodded mutely, the image of Pettigrew with the Killing Curse on his lips fresh in his mind. He wouldn’t be able to forget that for a long time.

 


	24. In The Name Of A Lord

_Personal Office Space of Thomas Gaunt_

_Gaunt House, Cornwall_

_4 July 1994_

 

“What do you think?” Thomas asked, gesturing languidly to the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

“Regarding?”

“Sirius Black’s wedding, of course.”

Lucius sipped his tea. “Naturally. My apologies. I was momentarily distracted.” He sipped his tea again, taking time to collect his thoughts. “To be perfectly frank, it was either terribly unfortunate or a blessing in disguise.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“If he had married Maura Zabini, and she quickly offed him, it would have been a coup for our side. On the other hand, if she had a child with him, the situation quickly could have turned problematic -- the Black seat, after all, will pass to Draco should Sirius fail to produce an heir.”

Thomas looked pensive. “What do you think his motive was?”

Lucius shrugged elegantly. “It could have been anything. If I had to guess, it would be fear of commitment. He had a couple of long-term flings in Hogwarts, and was serious about one or two of them, but he wasn’t exactly _committed_. Even before Azkaban, he wasn’t the sort to be tied down by anyone, and his time incarcerated likely accentuated that trait. I honestly was quite shocked when the engagement was announced. Maura must be quite convincing.”

“Indeed. I initially thought you might be responsible.”

“You flatter me. Perhaps if I were a more...wholesome sort of wizard, I would have had plans in place to protect Sirius from himself. As it stands, however, I am not.”

Thomas smirked.

“It’s a pity Peter was not successful.”

“Mm. It was highly unlikely that he would do anything remotely productive, but

occasionally desperate wizards produce satisfactory results.”

“What did you say to him?” Lucius asked curiously.

Thomas smiled, and a hint of unease made its way onto Lucius’ face. “The potion required to fully resuscitate our Lord requires a certain donation of body parts. Peter was informed that should he not be successful, he would be the one providing those parts.”

“I see. And if Peter had been successful?”

“One of the brethren would have volunteered.”

They sat in silence for several moments.

“The potion must nearly be ready,” Lucius commented.

“The ceremony will take place Friday.”

“You must be excited.”

“It will certainly be a unique experience.”

Silence overtook them once again.

“Something must be done about Sirius Black,” Lucius said quietly. “His current political

stance is not beneficial to us, and his unfettered access to Harry Potter is worrisome, perhaps more so than the influence of Albus Dumbledore on the boy.”

“I quite agree.”

“Narcissa briefed me on the Black inheritance laws. Sirius cannot name an heir other than one of his biological children, of which he has none, meaning Draco will inherit unless Sirius manages to procreate.  Sirius can only will away a small fraction of the Black fortune, and most of the heirlooms cannot be given to someone outside the family. Draco will inherit the Black ancestral home, but Sirius can will away the London townhouse, 12 Grimmauld Place. It’s a nasty place -- Walburga and her husband were rather insane -- but it still has value both in terms of its contents and its location.”

Thomas looked pensive. “The Black ancestral home… that would be Black Abbey?”

Lucius suppressed a shudder. “Yes.”

“The resources there must be invaluable.”

Lucius swallowed. He’d been to Black Abbey once, as a small child, and it’d been a

place of nightmares. “Indeed,” he managed, struggling to ignore memories of twisted house elves, curtains with small, skeletal hands, and the feeling that the walls themselves had eyes.

Thomas nodded. “Now, for the matter of Sirius Black...I take it you wish for him to suffer from an unfortunate accident.”

“Naturally.”

“...I was thinking more of an accident of the unnatural kind.”

“My apologies. That is what I meant.”

“Good.” Thomas leaned in closer. “Now, here’s what I was thinking…”

* * *

 

 

_3 July Evening Prophet, found on the desk of Thomas Gaunt_

 

_PETTIGREW APPREHENDED IN DIAGON ALLEY AFTER ATTEMPTED MURDER_

_by Autumn Westinburgh_

 

_Peter Pettigrew, wanted for the tredecuple muggle-killings and the betrayal of James and Lily Potter, has been taken into Auror custody after an attempted murder attempt on Lord Sirius Black. Lord Black (Gryffindor, Class of 1971) was out shopping with his godson, Harry Potter (Slytherin, Class of 1998), and the Boy-Who-Lived’s close school friends, Ronald Weasley (Slytherin, Class of 1998) and Hermione Granger (Slytherin, Class of 1998)._

_The group was in the middle of their excursion when Pettigrew appeared, and attempted to cast the Killing Curse on Lord Black. Fortunately, due to Granger’s quick reactions, Pettigrew was stunned mid-cast, and no physical damage was done to Lord Black._

_Aurors arrived on the scene, and took Pettigrew into custody._

_When presented with the 500 Galleon reward for apprehending Pettigrew, Granger tried to refuse, insisting that “anyone would have acted the same way. I just happened to have the fastest reflexes.” Granger ultimately accepted the reward with great modesty._

_“I am incredibly grateful to Hermione [Granger],” Lord Black told the_ Daily Prophet _. “If it weren’t for her quick reflexes, I likely would not be alive.”_

_PETTIGREW is continued on page 3._

* * *

 

_4 July Daily Prophet, found on the desk of Thomas Gaunt_

 

_PETTIGREW ESCAPES MINISTRY CUSTODY AND IS STILL AT LARGE_

_by Felix Flutterby_

 

_In a case of gross incompetence or an inside job, Peter Pettigrew has escaped Ministry custody. Pettigrew (34) was previously charged with thirteen counts of muggle-killing and also was responsible for the betrayal of James and Lily Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Pettigrew recently was apprehended in Diagon Alley after an attempted murder on Lord Sirius Black. He was taken into Auror custody, but managed to escape sometime during the night._

_Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, was unavailable for comment._

_Alastor Moody, a retired Auror, had this to tell the_ Daily Prophet _“Pettigrew clearly had a man on the inside. Either that, or standards have severely dropped in my absence. Now get out of my house!”_

_While Moody’s statement may have to be taken with a grain of salt, Pettigrew’s escape raises serious questions about the competency of our Aurors and how dangerous Pettigrew is._

_If you see Pettigrew (pictured left), Floo the Auror office immediately._

* * *

 

_Dungeons_

_Gaunt House, Cornwall_

_5 July, 1994_

 

“What do you think of that, Peter? You’re front page news.”

The man in the cell whimpered, but said nothing.

“I’m not pleased. You had one job, and that was to kill Sirius Black. Not only did you fail to do that, but Lucius had to burn a favor in the Auror office to break you out.”

Peter shuddered.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a wizard. Consider yourself grateful that Friday will provide a relatively dignified end to your existence.” Thomas turned on his heel and left. Quietly, in the dark, Peter began to sob.

* * *

 

_Ritual Chamber_

_Gaunt House, Cornwall_

_10 July, 1994_

 

Thomas eyed the cauldron skeptically. “Are you certain it’s done?”

Severus nodded, lips moving silently as he counted stirs.

“What are you doing now, then?”

There was a pause while Severus finished stirring. “Rendering it non-toxic so our Lord does not die immediately upon ingesting it. The purpose, as I understood it, was to reinstate him to his former glory, not do off with his current form.”

“When will you require Pettigrew?”

“Soon.”

Severus returned his attention to the potion, and Thomas resisted the urge to hex the man for impertinence. There was something about the man that Thomas didn’t like. He couldn’t quite pin it down -- he wasn’t sure if he could trust Severus, as the man was incredibly difficult to read and had spent the interim years living in Dumbledore’s pocket.

His counterpart had other opinions on Severus, of course, which is why the man had been included in the project. That, and the need for Severus’s potion skills. There were other alternatives to the nameless potion Severus brewed, but those were less perfect, or required less desirable components. The nameless potion not only required Potions expertise, but also a deep knowledge of the Dark Arts. Severus was well-versed in both fields, the fact that he had such a high level of expertise in his second field was profoundly disturbing and spoke volumes for his capabilities as a wizard.

“Bring Pettigrew in,” Snape suddenly intoned, “as well as our Lord, and any witnesses you wish to have attend. This part is delicate, and highly time-sensitive. Even the slightest variation can render the potion useless or deadly.”

Thomas quickly opened the door. The ceremony wouldn’t be large -- in fact, only he, Severus, and Lucius would be in attendance. The Dark Lord would need time to recover afterwards, and if anything went wrong, they would not want to have any extra witnesses.

The Dark Lord’s homunculus floated through the door, levitated by Lucius. Pettigrew stumbled behind him, bound, gagged, and under the Imperius. Thomas winced internally. Despite his obvious magical strength, the Dark Lord looked so weak. It was despicable, and thankfully would no longer be the case come midnight.

“Pettigrew can go in the upper part of the infinity circle,” Severus said. “You will need to lift the Imperius. The ritual requires a willing template.”

With a flick of his wand, Lucius lifted the curse. Peter’s eyes bulged horrifically. “Into the upper circle, Pettigrew.”

Peter didn’t move.

The homunculus hissed, and Peter all but ran into the circle, looking as if he was about to wet himself.

“My Lord, if you could enter the lower portion of the infinity circle…”

Lucius floated the homunculus in, and the engraved lines flared scarlet.

“Now for the potion…”

Severus levitated a heavy lead flagon of potion into the homunculus’ grasp, and it drank greedily. Once it finished, Severus quickly removed the flagon from the circle, and began to chant softly in Latin. The lines of the infinity circle burned red, and smoke rose, obscuring Pettigrew and the Dark Lord. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as the smoke spiraled into grotesque shapes.

Thomas watched, fascinated.

Severus’ chanting grew louder, until a light shone from within and everything fell silent. Slowly, the smoke began to clear. In the upper portion of the infinity circle lay a pile of bones underneath Pettigrew’s tattered robe. In the lower portion of the infinity circle lay a figure swathed in black. It sat up, staring at its long, spider-like fingers. With a great deal of effort, it stood, red eyes gleaming.

Lord Voldemort smiled.


End file.
